


New York

by Aggie2011



Series: Vantage Point Universe [9]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 110,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never thought they'd fight a battle where they lived. But an attack on the New York SHIELD base brings the fight home. *Vantage Point Universe*NO SLASH*Pre Avengers*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Nights I Stay Up

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> And we are back with the next multi-chapter installment to the Vantage Point Universe. I am going to post this story in time with how I post it on another fanfic site, so expect daily updates. Then once, it is done, I'll post all the one-shots I've done in this universe as well :)
> 
> As usual, special thanks to Kylen my amazing beta and good friend. She literally inspired this story. She gave me the idea to go this direction and I ran with it. She is amazing and this story is dedicated to HER - for her friendship, her inspiration, and her amazing writing skillz (that's right...skillz with a Z because she's that awesome)
> 
> Now, I could bore you with more talk, but I won't. Because I'm sure you are all anxious to get reading! And if you're not, you should be! :D If you're new to my work, this is part of a series, but can be read alone. All you really NEED to know is that Phil and Clint have a very deep brotherly/father-sonly bond. If you curious about my universe, click on over to my profile page and see what you can see :)
> 
> Now onward!

  
_If your life was complete, you'd be dead._   
_**Joshua Wisenbaker** _   


* * *

Clint jumped, twisting his body into the air. His right shoulder rolled against his opponent's left as the man charged him. Clint continued the roll, knees tucked to his chest, until the expanse of his shoulders had rolled across his opponent's. Then Clint landed lightly on his feet and watched his attacker stumble away, momentum thrown off by Clint's acrobatic dodge.

Clint sensed an attack on his left and bent backwards at the waist, spine becoming parallel to the floor. A leg swept through the space above him and he felt the air in front of his face shift. Clint reached back with his left hand, bracing it on the ground, and levered his body into the air, twisting his own legs around the attacking limb before it had passed out of range. For a moment both he and his attacker were frozen – Clint braced on one hand with his legs locked around his attacker's. His attacker, caught in an awkward, half-completed turn, left leg stretched uncomfortably behind him.

Clint had been counting on that loss of balance. The man had turned his body, anticipating completing the revolution of the spin kick. Clint had abruptly stopped his progress, trapping his leg.

All it would take was a little applied force at the right angle and the man would be on the ground. So Clint pushed off with his supporting left hand and twisted his body into a sharp spin. His vice grip around his attacker's leg forced the other man into a spin as well, hopping on his right foot as he tried to keep his balance, only to be forced to give in to the torque Clint was applying to his leg. His foot went out from under him and his right leg got caught up with his left. They both landed hard on their backs, legs in a tangle.

Clint pushed away, rolling into a backwards summersault and coming to his feet. His senses barked a warning and he crouched and then jumped, flipping backwards into a tight ball, and passing cleanly over the leg kicking out at him. Clint landed easily on his feet and immediately launched into a back handspring, putting some distance between him and his attackers.

"You know that last move almost dislocated my hip."

Clint smirked across the training mat at Agent Phil Coulson as he picked himself up off the floor.

"What's the matter, Phil? Starting to feel your age? Hips getting a little arthritic?"

"I can wipe that smirk off his face for you if you want, Phil." Agent Todd Bryan grinned predatorily as he shifted closer to Clint. He backed away, needing to prolong the pause in combat for as long as possible. Just over a month since Budapest and he was  _still_  fighting to build his endurance back up. He needed a breather now if he was going to lay both of these guys out like he wanted to.

So he steeled himself and shot Bryan a challenging glare that bore a hint of arrogance.

"You could try – might not go well for you."

Phil shifted as well, flanking Clint from the other side.

"Tactical error, Clint." Phil's voice took on a familiar tone – his coaching tone.

Clint arched an eyebrow, continuing to back away from them.

"Oh yeah?"

"You let us back you into the wall." Phil nodded towards the wall behind Clint, but Clint just shrugged, unconcerned.

"Did I?"

Phil and Bryan's eyes narrowed at the same time and Clint smirked. He saw the exact moment Phil realized where they were standing. His eyes drifted upwards for barely a moment and then he was moving at him, Bryan a step behind.

Clint turned and ran straight at the wall. He dug his left foot into the wall, and then did the same with his right two feet higher, one final step up with his left and he pushed off, twisting in the air and stretching towards the metal bar sticking straight out from the wall ten feet off the ground. His hands caught the rod easily and his body swung forward. He brought his legs up into a pike position, his body in V under the bar. Then as his momentum reversed, he levered himself up, folding his waist over the metal for a moment before he was pushing up and placing his feet on the bar between his hands. He stayed there, coiled, for only a breath, and then he exploded up and away from the bar. His hands caught the next bar – six feet up and six feet ahead of him – and he propelled his body around it. He shifted his hands as he moved, until he was inverted, doing a handstand with his legs extended straight above him.

He stayed that way for several moments, just breathing. He figured he was probably one of the few people in the world that could find a handstand restful.

"Show off."

Clint smirked and the dry tone, looking down at Bryan from his perch.

"Jealous, Bryan?"

Bryan scoffed derisively – as if the very idea were preposterous. Clint just chuckled and shifted, folding his body down to brace his boots on the bar between his hands. Then he stood in one fluid movement, feet finding balance on the thin tube of metal like it was solid ground instead of a mere two inches thick. He watched Phil twitch minutely – the man never liked it when he did stuff like this. He would stand in amazement by the time Clint returned to earth, but he never liked it until Clint's feet were back on solid ground.

Clint turned, stepping backwards towards the wall and leaning casually against it. He crossed his arms over his chest and did what he could to take advantage of the reprieve. He'd have to go back down sooner or later, and the longer he stayed up here the more likely Phil was going to get…

"You okay?"

…suspicious.

The concern in Phil's tone was too veiled for anyone else to have heard it – even Bryan didn't seem to catch on. But Clint had become just as much of an expert at reading Phil over the past six – nearly seven – years as Phil had become at reading him. He had figured Phil would read into his subtle retreat, would put it together with his extended stay on the bars. So he was reasonably prepared to mount a defense.

Nothing  _was_  wrong. He was fine. He was just tired.

He pushed off the wall, balancing effortlessly once again, and offered the handler a somewhat confused grin – as if he weren't sure why Phil was asking.

"I'm fine."

Phil's eyebrows arched doubtfully and Clint knew he wasn't fooled. Clint rolled his eyes and turned facing the lower bar. He'd just have to show Phil he was fine. So he stepped back, dropping down and catching his hands on his current bar. He angled his body, swinging his weight to gain some momentum. He kept swinging until he got his body up even with the bar, and then he let go, throwing his head and shoulders back and pulling his legs forward.

He completed the back flip easily, his hands catching the lower bar. His momentum carried him up and over the bar. He shifted his hands, used his legs to speed his momentum, and completed another revolution, then he released, tucking into a ball and flipping towards the ground.

He realized – as he spotted the ground and noticed he was half a rotation off – that this wasn't going to end as he'd hoped. He tried to correct, but ended up landing with his weight back on his heels, and then backwards he went, rolling over his shoulder and to his hands and knees.

He hadn't been quite that ungraceful in a while. He'd at least landed on the mat, but so much for convincing Phil he was all good.

He sensed them both coming towards him and barely managed to push off the mat and block Bryan's boot from hitting his ribs. He sprang to his feet and dropped into a defensive stance. At least if he was sparring, he could put off Phil's mother-henning.

Bryan advanced and Clint let him come. He ducked, dodged, and weaved around a series of attacks, internally cursing as fatigue crept in again. Bryan left an opening at his ribs for a breath and Clint went for it. Bryan was ready for him. He caught Clint's wrist and twisted, no doubt intending to try and get it up and behind his back. Clint had learned to counter that move long ago – all he had to do was roll with it, and twist his body up into the air, rolling over their joined arms and untwisting his own shoulder.

But he was tired – and his reaction time was a second too late. Bryan knew his moves – knew how he would counter this one – and had planned for it. He kept twisting, hoping to keep Clint locked up even after he executed the counter.

But Clint didn't move quickly enough and the 'pop' echoed across the gym. Bryan released him immediately, eyes going wide and Clint stumbled a step away, right arm limp at his side.

"Well sonovabitch." Clint huffed a slight laugh of surprise. He looked down at his arm, hardly believing he'd just let Bryan dislocate it. He couldn't remember the last time anyone but Natasha had gotten a serious hit on him in a sparring match.

"Jesus, Clint. You don't ever get to tell me you're 'fine'  _again._ "

Phil was already moving towards him, even as Clint took the two steps it would take to reach the wall and leaned against it. Before he knew it, his knees decided they were just gonna take a break and he slid down to his butt. It was about then that the pain made its appearance, forcing Clint to minutely clench his jaw, making the muscle on its side twitch.

"Shit, kid, when I gave you crap about showing off, I didn't mean you should  _stop_." Bryan scolded as he too came closer. Clint glanced at him, seeing the guilt written all over his friend's face.

"Yeah, well I guess I zigged when I should have zagged." Clint managed a self-depreciating smirk to try and ease some of Bryan's guilt.

The trainer's eyebrow arched.

"Barton, you didn't even zig." Now that was  _Bryan's_ coaching tone. "What the hell  _was_  that?"

Clint didn't get the time to try and come up with a viable response before Phil was grabbing his left bicep and pulling him up from the ground.

"We'll worry about that later, we need to get that shoulder back in before it starts swelling too badly." Phil didn't release his arm as he propelled him towards he door. "Dan switched shifts with someone and worked all night and just got off an hour ago, so  _you're_  gonna be the one to explain why we're bothering him."

Clint rolled his eyes and let Phil lead him along. He could walk on his own – could even find his way to Wilson's room on his own. But he could tell by the look in Phil's eyes that allowing the mother-henning for now was in Clint's imminent best interest. The grip on his arm, though, felt more like a product of annoyance than of concern. Either way, Clint didn't feel much like trying Phil's patience on the matter at the moment – not when he only had one arm with which to defend himself.

* * *

"I'm  _fine_ , Bryan, stop looking like a kicked puppy." Clint smirked over his shoulder as they finally came to a stop at the door to Wilson's quarters. The arched eyebrow glare he got in return had been known to make many a recruit quiver in fear. Clint's smirk just widened. He returned his attention to the door as he heard Phil knock.

There was a grunt from somewhere inside, a series of muttered words they couldn't quite decipher, a loud thud followed by a very loud curse they could decipher quite easily, and then finally the intercom buzzed to life.

" _Unless someone's dying, go away."_

Clint reached for the intercom before Phil had a chance.

"Bryan's dying of guilt, does that count?"

The door opened before he ever finished talking. Clint smiled merrily at Wilson, who was standing there in blue scrub pants and a bright orange t-shirt, scowling at them with mussed-up hair.

Clint cocked his head to the side at sight of the wardrobe choice.

"You go color blind?"

Wilson cleared his throat, ignored the question and instead arched an eyebrow at them.

"What the hell is wrong  _this_  time?"

His eyes were already scanning each of them individually, and they settled first on Phil's hand on Clint's left bicep then shifted to Clint's right shoulder.

"Dislocated shoulder." Phil volunteered the information quickly, no doubt to prevent Clint's likely more colorful version of events.

Wilson frowned and glanced over his shoulder, no doubt mourning his lost sleep. He sighed and waved them in.

"You know, Barton. I'm gonna start sending you out in bubble wrap. It'll save us all some aggravation."

"You're talking to the guy who still manages to get shot when he's wearing Kevlar." Bryan scoffed. "I doubt bubble wrap will make a difference either."

Clint shot him an annoyed glare and sat on the edge of Wilson's bed when the doctor motioned for it with his hand. Wilson picked up his right arm, feeling around on his shoulder with one hand. The doctor glanced at Bryan.

"You did this? Romanoff's gonna kill you when she gets back, you know that?" Wilson smirked evilly.

Bryan shrugged. "You fix it and she never has to know."

"She will if I tell her." Clint matched Wilson's smirk and cut his eyes over to Todd, only to twitch an eyebrow curiously when he noticed Wilson's closed bathroom door over Todd's shoulder. "You have some Tai food or something?"

Wilson frowned at him and followed his gaze. He swallowed suddenly and cleared his throat.

"Yeah, trust me it's better for all of us if that door's closed."

Clint tilted his head curiously as the back of Wilson's neck started to redden.

"Can we just put the shoulder back in?" Phil spoke suddenly from where he stood with his arms crossed at Clint's left shoulder.

"Relax, Phil. I'm fi-" Clint cut himself off with a sharp grunt of pain as Wilson forced his shoulder back into place with a sudden 'pop'. "Jesus, Doc! A little warning?"

Wilson pat his shoulder mockingly.

"Where's the fun in that? Besides they say the anticipation is the worst part. Ice and Ibprofen –you know the drill." Wilson backed up and allowed Clint to stand.

"Sadist," Clint grumbled as he rubbed his shoulder. "I oughta sic Tasha after you too."

"I oughta tell Natasha you just talked about her like she's a dog." Phil threatened with a smirk. Clint scowled at him.

"You wouldn't."

Phil's eyebrow arched in silent challenge. Clint narrowed his own eyes and glared.

"What'll it take?"

"You buy the pizza for the game tonight." Phil's eyes took on a hint of victory.

Clint scowled again.

"Fine." Then he turned to Bryan. "I won't tell Nat you dislocated my shoulder if you buy the pizza for the game tonight."

Bryan rolled his eyes.

"I don't know why I even associate with you." He sighed and nodded in agreement to Wilson's muttered 'I'm with you there'. "Fine – but I'm getting one with anchovies – just because I know you hate the smell."

Clint shot him a one-fingered gesture even as Dan ushered them all towards the door.

"I can live with the anchovies because my boys are gonna kick the Angels' ASSES and you'll need all the comfort you can get."

"I should have just dislocated your jaw. Then maybe we'd get some peace and quiet." Bryan shot back as he followed Phil and Clint to the door.

"Peace and quiet – sounds nice." Wilson muttered as he herded them all out the door.

"Missing your beauty sleep, Wilson?" Clint gave him a mock sympathetic look and set his tone to match.

"Missing  _any_  sleep actually and if you don't leave so I can get some  _I'll_ tell Romanoff about  _all_ of this."

"Geesh – no need to get nasty." Clint released an affronted huff. "Unless…" then he smirked mischievously and stopped at the door, turning to regard Dan carefully. "Who is it?"

The red that had been encroaching on Dan's neck, shot straight up to his cheeks.

"Who's who?"

Clint's smirk widened and he looked very purposefully over at the bathroom door.

"The girl in your bathroom."

Both Phil and Bryan stepped back into the room immediately, causing Wilson to drop his face into his palm.

"You got a girl in here, Dan?" Bryan smirked.

"No." Dan denied firmly. "I just want to get some sleep."

Clint shook his head.

"Mismatched clothes, whispering before you answered the door, closed bathroom door and all those shifty looks… _and_  I can tell you're lying – even if the fact that you're as red as a tomato didn't give it away. He definitely wasn't alone when we got here."

Wilson looked to Phil for rescue. The handler just shrugged.

"You think I can derail this now that he's on a roll? Besides," Phil smirked, "the kid raised some good points."

"A guy has a right to some privacy." Wilson insisted as he shifted to block Clint's attempt to slide past him. The look Clint gave him was patronizing at best.

"You really think you're actually gonna STOP me from getting past you?"

Before Wilson could answer the bathroom door swung open and resident physical therapist Rachel Braxton – the woman who had coached him through his devastating shoulder injury years ago – stepped out in nothing but a large t-shirt.

"Well, we ALL know how much of a stubborn pain in the ass you are, Barton – so let's just solve this mystery right now, shall we?"

Clint's jaw went slack.

"Braxton?!"

"Jesus, Rachel." Wilson sighed, his shoulders sagging in defeat. She shrugged and leaned casually against the bathroom door frame.

"He's already figured it out – he wasn't going to let it go. And I refuse to hide in the bathroom like I'm fifteen and your parents just got home. Besides, I couldn't resist that look on his face."

Clint shook his head in awe – turning back to Wilson.

"Braxton? Really? How'd you manage that?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and Braxton scowled.

"Hey, I'm a grown-assed woman – he didn't 'manage' anything. Does anybody ask you how you 'manage' Romanoff?"

Clint smirked and opened his mouth, only to be cut off when a hand suddenly latched onto his left elbow and pulled him to the door. Phil, whose face was almost as red as Wilson's, pushed him out the door.

Clint snickered to himself as Phil turned back and spoke past Bryan, who was following them out with a look of awe on his face.

"You realize he WOULD have answered that, right?" Phil arched an eyebrow at Braxton, who rolled her eyes like she should have expected as much. Wilson stepped to the door way, blocking their view into the room.

"You're an ass, Barton."

"Hey, you practically begged me to figure it out with all those tells. Seriously, LOOK at what you're putting on next time. Cuz orange and blue…not working for you."

Wilson glared at him.

"I hope the game ends in a tie tonight."

Clint's eyes widened and his jaw dropped in shock. Bryan's did something similar next to him.

"Hey now…no need for that kind of talk." The trainer patted his hand in the air like he could simmer Wilson down that way.

"How could you say something like that? That's just MEAN." Clint shook his head reproachfully.

"You know, you're right…" Wilson gave him a painfully mocking look of sincerity and crossed his arm over his chest in a manner Clint immediately interpreted as superior. "I hope the Angels kick the Yankees' ass."

He closed the door on whatever reply Clint was going to give.

"I think I pissed him off."

Phil rolled his eyes and ushered Clint back down the hallway.

"You think?"

* * *

Phil chuckled to himself as he reached for another slice of pizza and watched Clint and Todd argue with almost alarming intensity about a call that had just been made in the baseball game they had pulled up on the very large screen in one of the base's conference rooms.

"You'd think it was the World Series with those two." Dan put in as he polished off the last of his own piece of pizza.

"All game – every game." Phil laughed. "And you're no better when the Mets are playing."

Dan rolled his eyes but didn't deny it as he brushed crumbs off his blue Mets t-shirt.

"So…" Phil leaned back in his chair and bit into his pizza. "You and Rachel?"

Dan cleared his throat and red crept up from under his collar – he nodded almost sheepishly.

"About three months now."

Phil nodded, though he was surprised Dan had managed to keep it a secret for that long. Secrets were hard to keep when you had the likes of Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff running around. Those two were better experts at sniffing secrets out than they were at keeping them. And that was saying something.

"Good for you, Dan." And Phil meant it. It was hard – in their line of work – to cultivate a life outside of the job. Clint and Natasha had managed to do it – against all odds. Clint was that link for him, giving him a life outside of SHIELD. There was the occasional girlfriend, but nothing had ever stuck. But Phil was okay with that – Clint being the best friend, brother, and son he'd never had was more than enough for him.

"How's he doing anyway?"

Phil blinked, drawing abruptly out of his musings and looking at Dan in confusion.

"What?"

"Barton." Dan nodded at the archer – who was currently cramming half a slice of pizza into his mouth and shouting at the screen at the same time – and then continued. "After all this shit that happened in Budapest, there were a lot of unanswered questions. He and Romanoff coping all right?"

Phil sighed. Clint had finally accepted that he was never going to remember all of what happened in Budapest, a product of the poison Alex Moreno had shot him up with. But that acceptance had come only after a lot of frustration. And not just Clint's frustration. Phil and Natasha were right there with him. None of them would ever know the full extent of what Clint had gone through for those hours before he busted into the jail cell and reunited with Natasha. What they _did_ know was troubling enough in its own right. He'd been haunted by some manifestation of Barney Barton – his betraying brother that somehow still had a hold on him even after all this time. He'd also hallucinated the faces that went with many of the names in his ledger. The ledger that they – the three of them together – had burned on the rooftop in the hopes that Clint could start to let that part of his life go. That he could start the process of forgiving himself for it.

So how was Clint doing? There was never just one answer for that question – not when it came to Clint.

"They're hanging in there. It's tough on him, not remembering. Natasha filled in a lot of blanks but…" Phil shrugged. "Like you said, a lot of unanswered questions."

"Speaking of those…you ever figure out what the hell went wrong? How the crazy bitch found out they were coming?"

Phil schooled his expression.

"I'm working on it."

Had he found out? Hell, yes, he had. Clint and Natasha had been betrayed by a member of the World Security Council – Matthew Williams. Since then, Phil had been running an off-books investigation turning over every rock he could find to gather evidence on the man. Because he knew they wouldn't be able to move on him until they had a solid case.

And Phil wanted to move on him. He wanted Williams' head. The man had lost his daughter – Phil got that, better than he ever thought he would. But as he'd told Clint a million times as he sat with him and tried to help him process the guilt and self-hatred he felt for what he'd done that year as a contract assassin, Clint had been the bullet in the gun back then. He had been wrong, yes, but Brianna Williams hadn't been personal. It had been a contract – a  _job_. And if Clint could take it back, he would. Hell, the kid would give his goddamned life to take it back.

But Phil wouldn't.

And Phil wouldn't let Williams take his life for it either.

He didn't realize he'd let his gaze settle heavily on Clint until Dan elbowed his bicep.

"You're thinking really hard there, Phil, that's usually dangerous for you."

Phil huffed a slight laugh and pulled his gaze away from Clint and back to his pizza before the archer had a chance to sense it. Phil shook his head slightly, trying to clear the dark thoughts.

"Phil."

He looked up at Dan, attention caught not by his name – but by the concerned, sincere tone in which it was spoken.

"What the hell is going on?"

For a moment, Phil wanted to tell him everything. To unload all his worries and fears about Williams and the vendetta the man had against Clint. But then reality and reason caught up with him and he knew he couldn't say anything. At least, he couldn't say anything that would clue Dan into what was really going on. This wasn't about his own fears and worries. It was about Clint and Williams. And Phil wouldn't say anything without Clint's go-ahead.

Then there was the whole security issue. The more people that knew, the more risk there was that it would get out. Not that he didn't trust Dan. He trusted the man with Clint's life on a regular basis – and for Phil, trust didn't go deeper than that. They just couldn't risk Williams getting tipped off and disappearing.

"I swear to god, if you say 'nothing' I'm going to slip you something in your coffee – you won't know when or where, but it's going to happen." But the joking in the tone was backed heavily by concern making Phil sigh heavily.

"It's no secret that the Council has it in for Clint," he revealed carefully. "That's the angle I'm working right now. Trying to end this before another Budapest can happen."

Dan's expression grew grim and his eyes shifted to Clint, who was currently taunting Todd because the Yankees had just scored a run. He looked back at Phil.

"The Council was responsible for Budapest?"

There was sudden venom in Dan's eyes and Phil knew he was remembering what they  _all_  went through trying to get Clint and Natasha back – and then only to realize that they could lose Clint anyway. They almost had – and had almost lost Natasha too.

"We don't know anything for sure. And whatever it is, I doubt the entire Council was involved. Like I said, I'm working on it." Phil assured.

Dan stared at him very seriously.

"You really can't tell me anything else, can you?"

Phil often found himself thanking God for Dan's amazingly well-timed perceptiveness.

"No, I can't. It's not about trust – you know that, right?"

Dan nodded, eyes drifted to Clint as the archer shifted to reach for his cell phone that was ringing on the table.

"You do whatever it takes to end this. If that means lying to me – keeping shit from me – do it. He risks his life enough in this job without having to watch out for a knife in the back." Dan's gaze hardened suddenly. "If somebody in SHIELD, somebody in the Council – hell, the whole Council – is responsible for all this shit, nail their asses to the wall. Got it?"

Phil nodded seriously.

"Good – because I'm tired of putting that kid back together over and over again. And I'm tired of constantly worrying that one day I won't be able to."

God, did Phil ever understand a worry like that one. What had he been doing the past almost seven years but put Clint back together – over and over. Trying to get the kid past his crippling self-worth issues, his burning self-hatred. Trying to get him to see himself as MORE than a killer or a bullet in a gun. Just trying to get him to see that he was worth something to someone – was worth  _everything_ to Phil.

Natasha had helped a lot in that area – had brought to life a side of Clint that Phil didn't even know existed. But even more importantly, she'd gotten Clint to see that he  _mattered_  to her and by that, that he could matter to other people beyond just Phil.

"This is gonna end, one way or another,  _soon_." Phil promised seriously. Because if this case didn't come together soon – if Williams made another move on Clint…then to hell with protocol. To hell with evidence and to hell with SHIELD. Phil would go hunt down Williams himself and put a bullet through his brain for _daring_  to mess with Phil's family.

* * *

"Just come in when you get back, doesn't matter what time it is."

Todd watched Barton reach for  _another_ slice of pizza even as he continued his conversation with who could only be Romanoff. Todd stared at the pizza for a long moment and then shrugged. He motioned Barton to hand him another slice. The archer did so almost absently as he leaned back in his chair and spoke around a bite full of his own pizza.

"How's the leg holding up?"

Whatever Romanoff said seemed to ease whatever concern Barton had because he smiled and stuffed more pizza into his mouth.

"Fine – forget I asked." He chuckled. He sat forwards suddenly as the game came back on. "Game's back on."

She seemed to be far more understanding than most women would have been because Barton nodded and said something quickly in Russian before tossing the phone onto the table and zeroing his focus on the TV.

Less than three minutes later, the Angels' coach was calling a time out and walking out to the pitcher's mound. Barton sat back with a sigh and Todd seized the opening.

"So Romanoff's leg doing okay?"

Barton looked over at him blankly for a moment before the question seemed to click together in his head, pulling him away from the world of baseball and back to reality.

"Yeah. She's pissed that she got stuck with an intel mission out of the gate, but the leg is fine. I wouldn't ask her about it by the way. She's a little…" Barton smirked suddenly as if thinking back on some inside joke Todd wasn't privy to, " _defensive._ "

Todd chuckled a little. He could only imagine what  _that_ meant.

"And you? You seem to be getting closer to a hundred percent every day."

Barton shrugged slightly, only to reach and massage his right shoulder immediately. Todd knew it  _had_ to be sore – dislocations always were.

"I'm fine."

Todd rolled his eyes. He was getting as sick of that line as Phil seemed to be.

"Kid, if you were 'fine', I'd never have gotten close enough to get a hold of you, much less dislocate your shoulder. Sorry  _again_  by the way."

Barton waved away the apology and sighed – seeming to decide he was done putting up a front.

"Ever since Budapest," he rested his head back against the headrest and pinned his eyes on the ceiling, "my endurance has been in the crapper." He shook his head and then cut his eyes over to meet Todd's. "Doesn't matter what I do…I feel like I'm always running uphill. Today it caught up with me."

Todd frowned. He was fairly certain that Barton's version of "in the crapper" was probably not what it was to most men. But when he stopped to think about it, he guessed he had noticed Barton had been tiring a little more quickly than he used to. Right after the shit in Budapest that had been expected…but it had been a month. The kid hadn't seemed to have lost a step though, had always found a way to adjust to that fatigue.

Until today.

It hadn't been a big step – and if Todd hadn't known Barton's moves like they were practically his own, that little step wouldn't have mattered. But Todd had planned for Barton to counter – to do something that was sure to seem almost a little impossible. When that hadn't happened – when Barton had instead reacted as any  _normal_  fighter would – Todd's extra twist to keep the acrobatic Barton in check had turned into a dislocated shoulder.

"Yeah, well kid, you got dosed with a hell of a drug cocktail that we know was at least a few parts poisonous." Barton tilted his head in agreement. "A month ago I was in the back of that jet watching you circle the drain. And  _somehow_ ," Todd shook his head because he still couldn't quite believe it, "you clawed your way back from the other side. So running uphill or not – I've got no doubt that you won't let it happen again. You're too strong for anything else."

Barton sighed – as if he wasn't quite satisfied. His confidence in himself had never quite been where Todd thought it should be – or where  _Phil_  thought it should be. Todd had been fighting  _that_  particular uphill battle right alongside Phil for years.

So he drew in a breath to fortify himself and turned to fully meet Barton's eyes.

"Dan cleared you for duty two weeks ago because he believes the same thing. Besides – it's getting better, isn't it?"

Barton shrugged his left shoulder and nodded slightly. Todd nodded in return.

"That's because you've been working like hell to get back to where you were. And we  _all_ know how much of a stubborn pain in the ass you can be when you set your mind to something." Todd let his smirk tell Barton he meant that with nothing but affection. "You'll get back there. But even  _you_  are limited by the capabilities of the human body."  _Even if you do seem to defy that more often than most._

Barton sighed and nodded. Satisfied for the moment, Todd sat back in his seat.

"And don't think I've forgotten that you went and got yourself needing CPR  _again_. You promised to quit with that shit after you almost went down in Uzbekistan."

Barton waggled a finger at him with teasing in his eyes.

"I never promised anything."

Todd rolled his eyes – that hadn't been for his lack of  _trying_ to get a promise out of the kid.

"Doesn't mean I wasn't hoping for it anyway, kid."

Barton's expression softened slightly and the teasing left his gaze.

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Oh hell, kid…you've  _never_ disappointed. You just keep worrying us all towards early graves."

Barton huffed a slight laugh and made a face like he knew the truth of that statement all too well. Todd was sure he did. He'd never met anyone quite as perceptive as Barton tended to be and one didn't need to be all that perceptive to pick up on the worry that practically bled off of Phil, Dan  _and_  himself when it came to the kid.

"I'll try to work on that." Barton promised with an almost patronizing tone as he focused intensely on the screen when the game came back on. Todd sat back in his own chair and waited – knowing he wouldn't be able to pull Barton's focus away from the screen until the next commercial.

So he waited and bided his time and as soon as it went to commercial he cleared his throat and casually asked the question that had been burning on his lips ever since Budapest.

"So what the hell is going on?"

Barton froze ever so slightly – as close to a tell as he'd ever get – before blinking and giving him a blank glance.

"Huh?"

"Don't play dumb with me kid, it doesn't suit you."

Barton's eyes narrowed slightly and he scowled for a moment before his expression smoothed with almost scary ease into a look of blank innocence.

"Nothing's going on, Bryan."

Todd rolled his eyes.

"Listen, kid, let me tell you something. I grew up on the streets of south LA running with a crew that might even make _you_ think twice. I can handle whatever this shit is that you're sitting on right now."

Barton stared at him, the blank innocence gone and replaced by an almost terrifyingly intense look of scrutiny. Todd knew he was being weighed and measured in that moment.

Barton's expression suddenly smoothed and he spoke as casually as if he was talking about the weather.

"We're looking into the shit that went down in Budapest."

Todd's mind flashed back to the jet – to watching Dan shock the life back into Barton – to watching Phil watch the kid like his whole world would collapse if he died.

He had to mentally shake himself and focus back on Barton.

"What about it?"

Barton sighed and shifted in his seat.

"About who sold us out."

Todd felt a surge of adrenaline – as if he could go right now and exact revenge on the guilty party himself.

"You have a lead?"

Barton searched his gaze intensely with his own – looking for something. What? Todd wasn't sure. Finally, the steely, blue-gray gaze shifted away and Barton glanced around once before meeting Todd's eyes again – with no less intensity than before.

"We're looking into possible ties to the Council."

Todd felt like a sledge hammer had just slammed into his chest.  _The Council._

"What?"

Barton didn't say anything else, just sat back in his chair and stared at him – letting him process.

Todd shook his head. It couldn't be. Barton  _couldn't_ be being targeted by SHIELD's own leaders.

But…who else would have known the Hawk and the Widow were coming for Moreno? The missions those two went on were hush-hush even on base – strictly need to know.

_Holy shit._

"Jesus, kid. Is the Council gunning for you?"

Todd didn't know how they were supposed to protect Barton from that. He didn't even know where to start.

"We don't know anything for sure. Like I said," Clint gave him a heavy look, "we're looking into it."

Todd nodded – catching the hint to put up and shut up about it. He wasn't an idiot. Even if it  _wasn't_  true – this wasn't the kind of information you could just go around talking about. And if it  _was_  true…

Todd clenched his jaw. He'd nail every one of their asses to the wall if it was.

* * *

Clint was wondering if the scowl on Todd's face could  _get_  any deeper when the conference room door suddenly opened and none other than Fury himself stepped in. Clint swore every one of them stopped breathing as the director scowled over them.

Clint waited for the inevitable chewing out they would get for using the conference room for something other than 'conferencing'. And when the director took a step forward, he was sure no one would escape unscathed.

Then the unpredictable happened. Fury unfolded his hands from behind his back and reached out for slice of pizza.

"What's the score?"

Clint blinked. He wondered how it felt in hell now that it had frozen over. The rest of the room seemed equally stunned. It was Phil that recovered first.

"Angels are getting their asses kicked."

Clint smirked at that, meeting Phil's eyes in time to see the older man toss him a smirk of his own as he continued.

"And we all know that's all that really matters."

"Damn straight." Clint glanced at Bryan with an evilly triumphant grin.

Bryan glared at him.

"Game ain't over yet, Barton."

Clint didn't get a chance to respond before an announcement came over the TV that the Yankees had just scored another run.

Clint just smirked wider as Bryan's shoulders slumped.

Phil coughed back a laugh and even Mr. Hardcore Mets Fan – Wilson – smiled. Fury's one eye blinked slowly, but Clint was certain he saw a measure of amusement in it as the director pulled a chair over with his foot and sat down.

The Angels brought in a new pitcher and everyone relaxed back in their chairs as the new guy started warming up. Clint glanced at Phil. He could practically feel the sudden buzz of energy surrounding the man. He wondered how long it would take for Fury's right-hand man to ask the question Clint knew to be whirling in his mind.

_3-2-1..._

"How's the progress with the Helicarrier?"

_So predictable._

Fury chewed his pizza thoughtfully for a moment before responding.

"Right on schedule."

"The essential personnel all settled?"

Clint nearly rolled his eyes – in nothing but affection, of course – because Phil just couldn't  _not_  ask about work when they were supposed to be relaxing.

Fury nodded calmly – as if he'd anticipated and been ready for the line of questioning before ever stepping into the room.

"When do you anticipate going fully operational?"

Everybody in the room perked up at that question. The Helicarrier was a hot topic around base these days. With the list of reassigned personnel supposedly close to being released, there were mixed feelings about the new mobile base going operational.

Clint, for his part, would much rather just stay right here in New York, thank you very much. Shiny new base or not, Clint liked the freedom of getting to  _leave_  whenever he wanted without having to get clearance for a jet.

Though with his propensity for bad luck, he'd probably not only get stuck on the carrier, but Phil and Natasha would probably end up staying in New York.

He shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts as Fury responded.

"Within the next sixty days – give or take."

Everyone nodded – as if it had been all of them asking the question, not just Phil. Fury remained unfazed and just continued to calmly chew his pizza.

"When is the list coming out?" Wilson asked suddenly, not appearing as if he could restrain himself from asking. Clint was glad to know he wasn't the only one that didn't seem to want to be stuck on an oversized flying boat.

"The list is still being finalized."

Clint hated when Fury answered a question simply without really answering it. The man was a master at it. Wilson seemed equally annoyed by the response, but didn't push further.

The sudden sound of a bat cracking against a ball drew everyone's attention back to the screen and soon they were all enthralled in the game once again. It didn't take long for Clint and Bryan to be going at each other again and for talk of the Helicarrier and reassignments to fade from his mind.

* * *

Clint absently spun the pizza box on his finger – he fully intended to finish off the last few slices in the comfort of his room – as he and Phil walked down the mostly empty hallways of the SHIELD base. The hallways were never  _truly_ empty. Because SHIELD had operations running around the world and was in near-constant communication with the other bases, having staff on duty 24 hours a day was a necessity.

But the crowds tended to run a little thinner in the later hours of the night.

"So Bryan's gotten wise to something going on." Clint stated the information casually as they rounded the corner into their residence hall.

Phil sighed – but didn't seem surprised.

"Dan, too."

"What'd you tell him?"

"That we're looking into Budapest," Phil paused briefly and glanced behind them to insure they were alone in the hallway. Though – since he, Natasha, and Phil practically inhabited most of this hall with their rooms and their private training gym – it wasn't likely for anyone else to be around.

"And that we're looking into a tie to the Council."

Clint nodded.

"Pretty much what I told Bryan, too."

They came to a stop in front of Phil's door – Clint's was a little farther down the hallway – but Phil didn't raise his hand to the palm reader. Clint arched an eyebrow in question.

"I think it might be a good idea to bring them in. We could use all the help we can get if this goes south."

Clint shook his head immediately.

"Are we really going to have  _that_  discussion again?"

Phil's shoulders stiffened and he crossed his arms over his chest.

"I think it's an option that you need to consider."

Clint rolled his eyes and sighed before fixing Phil with an intensely serious look.

"Do you  _really_  think bringing them in is the right move? This is the  _Council_  we're dealing with, Phil.  _If_ this goes south on us, could you live with bringing them down with us?"

Phil's eyes flared angrily.

"And if something  _else_  happens to you – or to  _Natasha_?" Phil said her name like he knew that would be one of his best arguing points. "Do  _you_  think  _they_  could live with that? If they'd had a chance to help and hadn't?"

Clint clenched his hand around the pizza box and resisted the urge to jab it against Phil's chest as he made his point.

"If we play our cards right, we can stop Williams before anything else happens. I'm  _not_ ," Clint's knuckles went white around the pizza box for a moment before he forced his grip to loosen, "putting anyone else at risk. Not until we don't have a choice."

"And who decides when we 'don't have a choice?'" Phil shot back sharply.

" _I_ do." Clint snapped. "This is about  _me_ , Phil. About what  _I_ did." He cut his hand through the air to stop Phil from cutting in even as the other man opened his mouth. "Whether  _you_  think I deserve to be punished or not –  _Williams_ does. And he's going to keep coming for me. He's already pulled Natasha into it. I'm not giving him any more people I care about to use as targets."

Phil deflated a little at that and Clint had a feeling that had everything to do with the all-too-fresh memory of Budapest – and of  _both_  Natasha and Clint nearly dying because of Williams and his vendetta.

"Maybe they could help us – maybe they couldn't. But at least this way I know they're out of the line of fire."

Phil finally nodded.

"Fine. We'll keep them in the dark – for  _now_. But, kid, if this shit gets much deeper we're going to need all the help we can get."

It was Clint's turn to nod.

"I know – but we're not there yet."

"Okay." Phil allowed calmly and then he blew out a deep breath. "Go get some sleep. You've got a date with the track in the morning to run off all that pizza you ate."

Clint smirked and wiggled the box demonstratively.

"Then I better go eat the rest and make it worth my while."

Phil laughed and pressed his hand into the palm reader.

"'Night, kid."

"Night, Phil." Clint tossed over his shoulder as he headed down the hallway to his own room. A few moments later he was inside and relaxed back on his bed – pizza in hand, ear buds in place, iPod playing, and his well-worn copy of  _Return of the King_  open on his lap.

* * *

End of Chapter One

And we're off!

Everything is all nice and happy :) But what kind of story would this be if it stayed that way?! Buckle up! We're in for a wild ride full of action, angst, and injury!

As usual, this story IS complete - which is why it takes so dadgum long to get it done! So updates will come daily!

Comments are to me like bacon treats are to my dog - I salivate over them...not really but comment anyway, huh?

Here's your preview of Chapter 2!

* * *

_"You think you're the only one that knows about pain, Barton?"_

_The archer stopped nearly midstride, but didn't turn._

_"I know about pain. And not the kind of pain that comes with a gunshot wound – real, bone deep pain. I know about that. I know about wishing with everything you had that you could just go back – that you could go back to how things were before. And believe it or not, you aren't the only one who knows about loss, either."_


	2. Cashing In My Bad Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thank you to Kylen for her awesome beta-ing and for having incredible patience with my perpetually screwed up use of commas.
> 
> This story is dedicated to Kylen
> 
> On to Chapter Two...

  
_I've reached the point where I hardly care whether I live or die. The world will keep on turning without me, I can't do anything to change events anyway.  
_ _**Anne Frank** _   


* * *

_The passenger door of the old blue minivan slammed closed and Cliff Barton tilted his head a little to watch his wife make her way across the crowded parking lot towards the baseball fields beyond it._

_The sudden appearance of a bright blonde mess of hair next to him drew Cliff's attention to his six-year-old son, Clint, who had somehow managed to get free of his booster seat – which Clint insisted he was too old for, even if his small stature told a different story – and was in the process of climbing over the center console and into the front seat._

_Cliff grunted and huffed a laugh when a bright purple cast bopped against his head as the little boy made his way into the front seat._

" _Wanna watch it with the club arm, you little monkey?"_

_Cliff reached over to make sure Clint settled safely into the passenger seat only to abort the motion and fiddle with the radio when he got an increasingly familiar glare of independence. Clint settled sideways and cross legged in the seat and stared hard at him – his blue gray gaze bearing an intensity not at home in a six year old._

" _You mad at me, Daddy?"_

_Cliff sighed. Getting a call at work that your six-year old-son had gotten into a fight during recess hadn't exactly been the highlight of his day. He reached over to gently grab Clint's casted arm and turned it, looking pointedly at the faint red stain on the purple tape._

" _You never did tell me why you picked purple."_

_Cliff wasn't sure he was ready to dig into why his six-year-old monkey had gotten into a fight with a kid three years older than him. Deflection for the moment seemed like a safer route._

" _Purple's_ _ **not**_ _girly."_

_Cliff arched an eyebrow. That was a tad more defensive than he'd expected. He probably had Barney to thank for that._

" _I didn't say it was."_

_Apparently that didn't matter much to Clint, who launched into a defense of his favorite color anyway._

" _One of the Ninja Turtles is purple! Don…Dond…Dondatelello."_

" _Donatello."_

" _Yeah, HIM." Clint huffed in a comically affronted manner that had Cliff hiding a smirk by looking away briefly._

" _You make a very strong point."_

_Clint nodded very seriously with a glimmer of victory in his eyes._

" _You've convinced me." Cliff added when it seemed that Clint wasn't going to be satisfied into that particular item was resolved._

_Clint smiled and breathed what seemed to be a sigh of relief._

" _Now you wanna tell me about the new color you added to it today?"_

_Clint's impossibly-expressive eyes suddenly darkened with a mixture of guilt and anger – and then abruptly cut away to look out the windshield._

" _I think we should eat pizza for your birthday dinner, Daddy."_

" _Clint."_

_Those guilty blue eyes slowly shifted back to him._

" _You got in a fight?"_

_Clint pulled his lower lip in between his teeth and nodded slightly._

" _Wanna tell me why?"_

_Clint looked up at him through his blonde lashes and quietly replied._

" _David Miller said mean things."_

" _About you?"_

_Clint shook his head._

" _About one of your friends?"_

_Cliff wouldn't be surprised if Clint had gone to bat for a friend. The kid was loyal like that. But Clint shook his head again._

" _Who did he-"_

" _Barney." Clint blurted with a huff, eyes shifting to look out over the parking lot, as if the new object of the conversation would suddenly appear. Cliff sighed – how the hell was he supposed to discipline the kid now?_

" _What did he say?"_

_Clint sat up straighter and his eyes lit up as his voice rose._

" _He said Barney was stupid cuz he gets his letters mixed up! So I punched him in the face!" Clint looked down at his stained cast._

" _With your cast?"_

" _I didn' wanna drop my chocolate milk."_

_Cliff blinked blankly for a moment at that – the kid and his sweet tooth. Cliff followed Clint's gaze down to the faint stain – made faint by intense scrubbing by Katie, no doubt._

" _Clint, look at me."_

_Clint's eyes rose obediently._

" _You can't just hit people when they make you mad."_

" _What if they deserve it?"_

_When the hell had his six year old gotten so sharp?_

" _Does anybody deserve to get beat up?"_

_Clint's eyebrow arched._

" _David Miller did."_

" _Clint." Cliff scolded with a sigh. He blamed Katie for the kid's stubborn streak._

_Clint bit his lip again and guilt shined in his eyes._

" _Are you mad at me?"_

_Mad at him for defending his brother? Where was a parenting manual when you need one?_

" _I'm not mad at you – but hitting David Miller was wrong."_

" _What was I supposed to do?"_

_Damned if Clint didn't look close to tears now – though it seemed to be more out of frustration than anything else. Clint always tried to do the right thing – which made it harder to punish when he chose wrong._

" _Not hit him."_

" _He called Barney stupid." Clint defended in confused frustration._

" _And he was wrong to do that, but maybe what SHOULD you have done?"_

" _Called him stupid back?" Clint muttered with a sour look as he leaned back against the door._

_Cliff barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes – goddamned stubborn streak._

" _No." He fixed Clint with a heavy look._

" _Tell a grown up?" Clint sighed miserably._

" _Bingo."_

_Clint nodded pitifully. Cliff sighed and glanced up to see Katie and Barney heading across the parking lot – his oldest still decked out in his baseball practice gear. Cliff glanced back at Clint, who still looked crushed._

" _Look at me, Monkey."_

_Clint looked up._

" _I'm proud of you for sticking up for your brother. Just find the right way next time."_

_Clint nodded._

" _Come here."_

_Clint immediately crawled over the consol and allowed Cliff to wrap him in a strong warm hug._

" _I love you, Daddy."_

_Cliff never got tired of hearing that._

" _I love you too, Clint."_

_He kissed the baby soft golden hair under his chin and then pulled back._

" _Now back into your seat, Monkey." Cliff levered Clint onto the consol and watched him climb back into his booster seat just as Katie and Barney reached the van and piled in._

" _How was practice?" Cliff asked his oldest as he navigated out of the parking lot._

" _I got Jason Lewis out at first and he's the BEST player on the team. It was EPIC."_

" _That's awesome, kid."_

" _That's awesome, Barney!" Clint parroted – earning a warm smile from his older brother._

" _So, where to for your birthday dinner, Mr. Barton?" Katie Barton asked from the passenger seat as they pulled out of the parking lot._

" _Hmmm…" Cliff looked into the rearview mirror, catching Clint's eye. "I'm thinking pizza."_

_Clint smiled._

* * *

" _He's asleep."_

_Clint jerked his head up._

" _Nu-uh."_

_His daddy chuckled softly and came to a stop at a red light._

" _He gets that from you." Daddy looked at Mommy, who rolled her eyes._

" _So I'M the stubborn one?"_

" _Hell yes, you are."_

" _Cliff, language."_

" _They're both practically asleep anyway. It's not like they'll remember even if they heard."_

_Clint rested his head back against the seat and blinked heavily. He and Barney had gotten up really early. They'd surprised Daddy with homemade eggs and bacon for his birthday. Daddy had looked REALLY surprised – and he'd made a funny face when he tried the eggs._

" _Clint."_

_Clint rolled his head over to look at Barney._

" _You can use my shoulder."_

_Without another thought, Clint slid sideways and rested his head on Barney's shoulder, eyes drifting closed._

_He felt the car move again even as his thoughts faded away._

" _CLIFF!"_

_And then he was jerked sharply away from Barney's shoulder, casted arm slamming into the door. Glass shattered around him even as his head hit something hard._

* * *

_Katie woke to pain. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as fire spread through her body. For a moment she was sure she would lose herself to the pain – but then a sharp, overwhelming thought resounded through her consciousness._

_The boys._

_Her babies._

" _Barney? Clint?" She forced her boys' names past her bleeding lips, trying to turn in her seat only to cry out in pain. She forced a deep breath and just turned her head. Her breath left her so suddenly, she was sure she was going to fade away right there._

_Cliff._

" _Cliff?" It was barely a whisper, but she already knew her husband wouldn't be answering._

_Cliff's eyes were open, but she could tell that he wasn't there anymore. He was gone. A sob tore from her throat as she reached for him – then a soft groan from the backseat drew her attention._

" _Clint? Baby, can you hear me?"_

_Katie shifted trying to get a look at her youngest, who was positioned behind her._

" _M'mmy?"_

" _I'm right here, baby."_

_Katie finally caught sight of him in the twisted reflection of what used to be the review mirror. His face was bloody, but those amazing blue gray eyes she loved so much were open and looking around. Katie momentarily did the same – swallowing deeply as she took in the mutilated twisted metal of what used to be their minivan, caught now between an equally destroyed truck of some sort and a splintered telephone pole._

_Pain tore through her again as she vaguely realized the pain stopped once it reached her waist. She didn't dare look down to investigate and returned her attention to Clint instead._

" _Look at me, baby, don't look around, just look at me."_

_His foggy eyes met hers in the cracked mirror._

" _Are you okay, sweet pea? Does anything hurt?"_

_His scratched left hand rose to touch his head._

" _My head hurts," he whimpered._

" _I know, baby, anything else?"_

_Please let him be okay._

" _My arm and my chest."_

" _Okay, you're gonna be okay, sweetie, just keep looking at me."_

_Pain crashed through her and she couldn't help but cry out._

" _Mommy?!"_

_Oh god…not now…not with her baby boy watching._

* * *

_Clint felt a sharp awareness sweep over him when his Mommy shouted._

" _Mommy?!"_

_She didn't answer, just panted in the front seat with her eyes closed._

" _Mommy?" his voice faded to a whisper as fear rose in him. He shifted his eyes away from the mirror and over to where his Daddy had been. Daddy wasn't moving, was sitting funny in his seat._

" _Daddy?"_

" _Clint, baby, look at me, don't look around."_

_Clint obediently moved his eyes back to his Mommy at her pained, whispered command._

" _I want you to close your eyes, baby. I want you to close your eyes and don't open until you hear the firemen okay?"_

_Clint wanted to ask why the firemen were coming. He wanted to ask why he had to close his eyes. He wanted to ask why Daddy was sitting funny, why Barney hadn't moved in the seat next to him. Instead, he just nodded._

_Mommy nodded back._

" _I love you so much, sweat pea. Now close your eyes."_

_Clint did._

_And he kept the squeezed shut, silent tears leaking down his cheeks. He heard a sharp gasp and his eyes flew open._

" _Mommy?!"_

_He looked at the mirror, but Mommy wasn't looking at him anymore. Her eyes were closed and she wasn't moving anymore._

" _Mommy!"_

_Clint struggled against his seatbelt, but couldn't get free._

" _Mommy!"_

* * *

Clint choked on his own breath as reality returned with all the subtlety of a freight train. He blinked to clear his watery vision, his chest aching from the echo of the ribs that had been broken all those years ago.

It wasn't until he blinked again – bringing his frayed nerves back under control – that he realized he was sitting up. That he was reaching out with his left hand towards the open air of the room.

For a moment he saw her – just as he had when he was six years old – lying motionless in the front seat of the van.

" _Mommy!"_

The sudden memory of his own cry sent a sharp, crippling pain through his chest. He abruptly blew out a sharp breath and jerked his hand back as if the air was made of fire.

"Son of a bitch." He pressed his palms against his eyes and threw every ounce of focus he had into calming the painfully-rapid, shallow quality of his breathing.

But the air felt thick and his room felt more suffocating by the moment. And no matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

He needed to get out of here – needed to purge the memory from his mind.

Clint snapped his blankets off his legs and reached for a pair of athletic shorts even as he stood. He shrugged into an old gray Army t-shirt and reached for his favorite Puma running shoes.

But then he stopped, toes hovering over the opening in the sneakers. He shifted his gaze to his bow and quiver, resting atop his dresser near the door.

Any other night – any other dream – he'd be pulling on those shoes and heading for the range.

But this wasn't any other night – or any other dream.

It wasn't a dream at all. It was a memory. It was the night that he'd lost everything – his parents, his childhood, even his brother – even if he hadn't known that last part until years later, when he lay dying in the rain with a knife in his chest.

He hadn't had a bow back then. He'd had to learn to cope in other ways – ways that he'd mastered when they went to Carson's. And even now – years later – he yearned for the burn in his muscles as he threw himself into blood pumping, energy burning acrobatics on the tumbling mat. He longed for the pull in his arms and shoulders as he climbed – climbed anything and everything he could find a handhold on.

He put his shoe down. He'd move better without them.

* * *

Todd Bryan yawned as he stared down at the pile of PFAs – Physical Fitness Assessments – he'd administered this morning. He  _should_  have had these all signed and put in the system hours ago, but the Angels had been playing the Yankees. And Todd had jumped at the opportunity to have something to taunt Barton about.

Of course had he known the Angles would  _lose_ , he might have chosen the paperwork instead.

He yawned again, pressed enter on his laptop – successfully entering the final PFA – and leaned back taking a moment to rest his tired eyes. He  _should_  be in the comfort of his own office, in the comfort of his nice, comfy office chair. But one of his trainers was holding a night training session in the main gym. And no matter how he'd tried, it had been impossible to force his tired mind to focus with three dozen recruits running around right outside his office door.

So here he was – in the supply closet connected to Barton and Romanoff's private gym. The private training area was a fair share smaller than the main gym, but it was perfect for the deadly duo and their purposes. It also kept his other agents out of medical more consistently.

A supply closet hadn't been his first choice for paperwork – it was more like his last. But his office was out, his room had the all-too-strong temptation of his bed, and just about everywhere else on base had people around. The idea of eyes watching him as he filled out paperwork just wasn't all that appealing.

The supply closet had an exercise ball he could sit on, and it was away from prying eyes. It also didn't have any distractions – or at least he  _hadn't_  until about an hour ago.

Barton coming into the training gym at odd hours wasn't unusual. The kid carried a lot of shit on his shoulders and Todd had become accustomed to Barton being in the gym at all hours of the night during his time under Todd's training.

And one agent running around was a lot easier to tune out than three dozen.

Todd glanced towards the closed door. He didn't think Barton knew he was here, the supply closet door didn't have a window and with the gym's motion-sensitive lights having turned on when he got there, Barton was unlikely to notice the light coming under the supply closet door.

Now that he was finally – mercifully – done with his paperwork, he'd have to reveal himself.

He really didn't want to hear  _any_  more smartass comments about the game – and he was sure Barton had a reserve of them on the tip of his tongue. But he'd be willing to take a few if it meant he got to go to bed.

With a sigh, he closed his laptop and slid it and the pile of papers into his backpack. He stood from the medicine ball he was sitting on and looked at the door, bracing himself for a full dose of Barton sarcasm at its finest.

He pushed the door open and stepped out, flipping the supply closet light off as he did.

No wittily-contrived one liner came his way, no sarcastically condescending look – earned solely because he chose to be an Angles fan – was shot in his direction. He didn't even get one of Barton's classic death stares for interrupting his training session.

Barton didn't even look his way.

He instead kept his focus on what he was doing. Which, in Todd's opinion, was probably a medal-worthy bar routine.

At the moment Barton was doing an impressive handstand, hands wrapped around the bar and legs pointed straight up in the air. Todd tilted his head, waiting. He knew when Barton moved, it would be fast.

And it was. One moment, he was like a pillar, standing straight – albeit upside down – and then he was a blur of motion, body arching as he swung around the bar. Todd smirked when Barton suddenly released the bar, did some insanely acrobatic sort of flip like spin in the air and then caught the bar again, resuming his swing around the bar with barely a pause.

Barton arched his body a little more, speeding his swing and then released again, flipping towards the ground. With a grunt, the archer slammed hard into the mat on his hands and knees.

Todd winced and opened his mouth to ask if he was okay, but the words caught in his throat.

Because no sooner had Barton hit the mat than he was slamming his balled fist into it over and over, finally slamming both hands down flat with a shout of some mixture of frustration, pain and anger. Then he was up and running across the tumbling mat.

Todd frowned, concern blossoming in his chest as he moved quietly across the gym. Barton was famous – both in SHIELD and amongst his enemies – for keeping his cool, for hiding his emotions. That he had let himself lose that control – even if he thought he was alone – was unheard of.

Something was definitely brewing in that minefield Barton called a consciousness.

He winced again when Barton's attempt at a back handspring failed when the shoulder Todd had dislocated gave out under the strain. The archer went tumbling to the mat with a grunt. Without even taking a moment to catch his breath, Barton was up again.

"You know if you wanted to beat yourself up, I'd have gladly volunteered to help."

Barton froze, shoulders heaving as he no doubt tried to bring air into his overworked lungs. For a long moment, he just kept his back to Todd as he approached.

"What are you doing in here?"

Todd's eyebrow arched at the edge in the archer's tone.

"Retract the claws, tiger, I come in peace."

Barton turned at that.

"What are you doing in here?" This time, the edge in his tone had turned razor sharp.

Todd sighed. Barton was wearing his 'won't take any shit' face.

_This oughta be a fun conversation._

He kept his own tone firm. He'd learned on day damn one not to give an inch when Barton was in a mood – the kid would tear him to pieces if he did.

"Cool it, kid. I was just doing some paperwork."

Barton's eyes shifted over Todd's shoulder to the dark supply closet. His eyebrow arched.

"In a closet?"

"So sue me. You own the closet?"

Barton rolled his eyes and shifted his weight, fingers curling briefly into his hands before he seemed to force them to relax by pure will power.

"You done?"

Todd narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Yeah."

"Good." Barton's gaze hardened. "Then get out." With that the archer turned away.

Todd arched an eyebrow.

 _Oh hell no_.

"Now why would I want to do that?" Todd slid his backpack off his shoulders and dropped it to the ground. "When you've been so inviting?"

Barton didn't face him.

"I'm not in the mood, Bryan."

"Tough shit, kid. You keep going like this and you're gonna hurt yourself. You hurt yourself and Phil finds out I didn't try to stop you, he'll kill me."

Todd didn't have to see the eye roll to know it was there. But there was an undercurrent of tension in the kid's shoulders and that alone told him this was about more than a bad mood.

Todd tilted his head and bit his lip.

"You want me to get Phil?"

Barton's shoulders dropped a little and he blew out a breath. He finally turned, pulling at the athletic tape he had around his wrists.

"No."

Todd nodded, looking Barton up and down. The kid was drenched in sweat – and Todd could see his hands subtly trembling, even though Barton was trying to hide it under the guise of pulling off the tape.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Barton huffed a sad, dejected kind of laugh and shook his head, looking away – but not before Todd caught a glimpse of his eyes. Todd had never seen anything like that in Barton's eyes before. He'd seen the kid spitting fire angry. He'd seen him hurt, dying even. He'd seen the kid – on nights similar to this – nearly crumbling under the weight of the burdens he carried.

But he'd never seen this kind of pain – this measure of loss and longing. He'd never seen this kind of sorrow in the archer's eyes before.

But it was still familiar – more familiar than any other look Barton had ever worn.

"I get it."

Barton's eyes cut back to him sharply.

"What?" Barton breathed in surprise.

"I get it. You think if you work yourself hard enough, push yourself far enough, you'll be able to forget."

Barton blinked, shock filtering through his eyes briefly before they hardened again.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

Todd rolled his eyes and crossed his arms across his chest.

"Right – cuz after almost seven years I don't know a damn thing about you."

Barton scowled and shifted his gaze away again. Todd sighed and uncrossed his arms, softening his tone.

"Look, kid, I know how that train wreck you call a mind works." Barton scoffed and Todd hurried on before the kid could get properly offended. "And I can see that whatever shit is going on in there tonight," he pointed a finger at Barton's head, "isn't the usual recipe of crap."

Barton's gaze darkened and Todd cut his hand through the air to stop any sort of argument.

"Your whole issue of taking the shit of the world on your shoulders isn't a wall I particularly want to beat my head against right now – I'll leave that discussion to Phil. But  _this_ , tonight, this is something I know a little bit about."

Barton scoffed again, more sadly this time, and shook his head.

"You don't know anything about it, Bryan."

Todd swallowed thickly as Barton turned away again, moving back towards the gymnast bar. He hadn't wanted to get this far into this – hadn't wanted to do anything but get Barton to stop hurting himself. He should have known that nothing with Barton would ever go the easy way.

"You think you're the only one that knows about pain, Barton?"

The archer stopped nearly midstride, but didn't turn.

"I know about pain. And not the kind of pain that comes with a gunshot wound –  _real_ , bone deep pain. I know about that. I know about wishing with everything you had that you could just  _go back_  – that you could go back to how things were before. And believe it or not, you aren't the only one who knows about loss, either."

Barton turned slowly at that, fists clenched at his side and posture so stiff Todd was worried he might pull something.

"We both know what answer I'd get if I asked you to tell me about it – hell, if you don't wanna talk to Phil, you sure as hell won't talk to me. So how about  _I_ talk."

Barton just stared at him silently – waiting, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. Todd blew out a deep breath and made his way across the mat towards the hanging punching bag.

"I grew up in south LA – and this," he tapped the bag with his fist, "this was my escape. A guy on my block owned a crappy little gym, a few weathered punching bags and a ring with only half the ropes intact, but it was safe. It was one of the only two places in my neighborhood that was. The other was home."

Todd smiled wistfully as he circled the bag, tracking Barton out of the corner of his eye as shifted to listen but didn't approach.

"My dad was a cop, never felt safer than when that man was around. I was probably one of the only kids in the neighborhood that had that kind of security. Hell, I had it all, a mom  _and_ a dad, a big sister who actually liked having me around." Todd shook his head, swallowing back the sudden wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

"How'd they die?"

Todd stopped his journey around the bag and ran his palm down the smooth leather. Barton had always been a perceptive son of a bitch.

"A drive by."

He saw Barton wince in something akin to sympathy.

"My dad was walking my sister home from basketball practice and they walked right into a retaliation hit meant for some gang banger who walked away with nothing but a winged shoulder."

Todd shook his head.

"A goddamned waste."

* * *

Clint watched Bryan stare at the punching bag. He had a feeling he was seeing a different bag though, in a different gym, in a different time. Clint swallowed and drifted a few steps closer.

"How old were you?"

"Ten." Bryan looked up at him. "And just like that, everything changed. I got angry – at everything, but mostly at the crew that pulled the trigger. So I did the only thing that made sense to a stupid, angry kid."

"You joined the rival crew."

Bryan nodded.

"Like I said, I was a stupid, angry kid."

Clint didn't know what to say - what he could ever say – that would actually be helpful. He wondered if this is how Phil always felt around  _him_.

"So I get it." Bryan rounded the punching bag and moved back towards his abandoned backpack. He shouldered it and met Clint's eyes again. "Sometimes I want nothing more than to go back – to be the skinny little black kid who had it all and didn't even know it. But I can't and neither can you."

Clint swallowed thickly, wishing he didn't feel like his chest was in a vice because of Bryan's words.

"And when we realize we can't go back, we just wanna forget. But we can't do that either, can we?"

Clint stared at him, every memory he'd been battling for the past hour flashing before his eyes. He blinked and Bryan was standing in front of him. Clint sucked in a surprised breath, but held his ground. He forgot sometimes that the man was the training director for a reason.

"I know what it is to be from a place you wanna forget. But it's those places, those pieces of our past that make us who we are. Who we are comes from both the good and the bad shit we've been through. And personally," Bryan dipped his head and forced Clint to meet his eyes, "who  _you_  are is someone I'm damn proud to know."

Clint huffed and looked away. He hated it when people made him into something he wasn't – saw him as something more than he was. He glanced back in time to see an odd mixture of sadness and frustration in Bryan's eyes before the trainer suddenly clapped him on the shoulder and smiled.

"Besides, Barton – can't have nothing but sunshine cuz we need rain to grow."

Clint blinked and tilted his head to the side – just staring at Bryan for a long moment.

"You get that off a fortune cookie?"

Bryan laughed and Clint couldn't help but smirk in return.

"Saw it on a poster once – I think there was a flower on it."

Clint couldn't help but laugh at that as he rolled his eyes.

"You quoted me something that had a flower on it?"

"Doesn't mean it wasn't relevant."

Clint shook his head and huffed another laugh – this one a touch more sarcastic. Bryan glanced towards the door.

"You good?"

Clint drew in a deep breath and mulled that over for a moment. He actually felt a little better – a little less like he couldn't breathe.

"Yeah," he nodded, "I'm good."

Bryan nodded and started towards the door. Clint glanced around the gym, then down at his hands, sticky from the athletic tape he'd distracted himself with earlier.

"Hey, Bryan."

The agent stopped at the door and looked back, eyebrow arched. Clint absently itched at his palm and forced himself to meet his friend's eyes.

"Thanks."

Bryan smiled a surprisingly genuine smile.

"Anytime, kid. Get some sleep, huh?"

Clint nodded and then Bryan was gone. With one more glance around the gym, Clint headed towards the door.

* * *

Clint's eyes flashed open, his hand sliding under his pillow and wrapping around the grip of his Desert Eagle.

"It's me."

His grip relaxed immediately and he shifted, peeking over his shoulder as Natasha quietly closed the door and dropped her bag against the wall. He shifted his gaze to the clock on his bedside table as she started to toe off her boots.

_**2:03** _

He'd been back asleep for maybe twenty minutes.

"Gun or knife?"

She unzipped her jacket and slid it off her shoulders as she moved towards the bed.

Clint tightened his grip on his the Desert Eagle again and pulled it out from under the pillow, holding it up for her to see even as he rolled onto his back. She smirked and took the gun, reaching over him to set in on the bedside table.

"You don't need that – I'll protect you."

"Oh, yeah?" Clint smirked, relaxing lazily back into the mattress as she shifted one of her legs over his waist and granted him one of her more seductive looks. She slowly leaned closer, running her hands up the scared contours of his abdomen and chest. She leaned closer, her lips hovering over his, before she drew back – hands shifting back down his chest.

"Stop teasing." It came out as more of a strained growl than the firm scold that he'd intended. When exactly had she gained all the power in their relationship? He wasn't sure – he just knew that when she wanted him to be, he was putty in her hands.

He rolled his eyes as she just smirked evilly at him.

"If you don't –"

Her mouth locked onto his, cutting off whatever threat he'd been about to issue. And at the moment, he couldn't remember for the life of him what exactly that had been.

A few moments later she pulled back sharply.

"Are you checking my leg?"

"No." Anybody else, his cool, calm innocence would have been convincing. With Natasha…innocence just wasn't something he could pull off – for  _various_  reasons.

She glared down at him and he drew his hands – previously resting on her thighs – back and showed them to her innocently.

"Just making sure you're still in once piece."

She continued to glare for a long moment and then her gaze softened and her lips quirked into a warm smile.

Clint arched a wary eyebrow.

"Relax," she purred, leaning closer again, "I think it's sweet."

His eyes narrowed.

"Oh, really?"

"Well, I will as long as you tell me why the hell your shoulder is swollen."

Well that explained the "it's sweet" comment. Always working an angle – even with him.

"It's nothing."

"It doesn't feel like nothing."

"A sparring accident."

Her eyebrow arched delicately.

" _You?_  A sparring accident?"

He didn't know whether or not he was supposed to be flattered by her tone of disbelief.

"I'm fine."

Her look alone told him she wasn't letting it rest until she was sure of that for herself.

"Fine."

She immediately reached for the light on the bedside table even as he sat up. She sat back on her haunches, legs still straddling his and immediately set about inspecting his shoulder.

"What happened?"

"Dislocated."

Fire lit her eyes.

"Who did it?"

"Doesn't matter – it was an accident."

She searched his gaze intensely for a moment and then nodded.

"When did it happen?"

"This afternoon."

She frowned, eyes shifting back to his shoulder, her cool hands resting on the injured muscles. He knew she was wondering why it still had so much heat coming off of it, why the swelling was still up. Sometimes it was better to answer the question before she could ask it.

"I hit the gym for a while." He spoke quietly, knowing she'd know the why behind it just by his tone.

Her gaze softened and her shoulders relaxed – her right hand shifting from his shoulder to brush through the hair of his temple instead.

"You okay?"

"I'm good."

She searched his gaze again.

"It wasn't the names." She stated it as a fact, not a question.

He wasn't surprised by her perceptiveness. She'd been exposed to his nightmares long before they'd ever shared a bed just like he'd been exposed to hers. They'd learned the nuances of how the more common ones affected each other fairly early on – and now that they were openly honest about what those dreams entailed…it was getting easier to connect the dots.

Her eyes narrowed and a small, confused frown tugged at her lips.

"What was it?"

He blew out a low breath and shifted to lean back his on his hands.

"My parents."

Understanding filtered through her expression – followed quickly by a rare look of helplessness. He didn't dream of his parents often – and it was one thing he knew she didn't know how to relate to.

She didn't remember having parents to miss – he wondered sometimes which of them had it worse.

"I'm good." He promised again when the helplessness in her eyes grew.

She searched his gaze for a long moment, then her lips curved into a silky smirk.

"That's too bad," she purred, gently pushing him back onto the mattress. "If you  _weren't_  good, then I would make it my personal mission to make it all better."

Clint lips curved into a smirk of his own.

"You know, come to think of it…"

* * *

"You two are up early."

Clint looked up from where he was pouring sugar into his oatmeal. Natasha looked up from her plate of half-eaten spinach omelet and immediately slapped at his hand, spilling the sugar on the table.

"Hey!"

"Why do you even get that if you're just going to add sugar?"

"Because I can't add sugar to that rabbit food you're eating or any of the other crap they wanna force feed us except the cereal – you can't  _fix_  that kind of nasty. I didn't  _want_ cereal and at least  _this_  is one other thing I can make tolerable."

Phil rolled his eyes and sighed, sitting down across from the duo and resigning himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get a proper greeting as he'd hoped.  _Why_ Clint felt the need to make adding sugar to his food a covert affair, he didn't know. But he felt the urge to defend the action he wished  _he_  had thought to do.

"At least he's not adding alcohol to his coffee."

Natasha scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"You're hopeless –  _both_  of you."

"She sounds so surprised." Phil grinned across the table at Clint, whose gaze turned mischievous.

"I'll have you know, Natasha, that my body is a temple." Clint's expression turned a touch superior as he sat back in his chair. Phil choked on his own oatmeal.  _That_  was rich.

"A temple." Her dry tone did nothing to help Phil clear the glob of oatmeal trying to snake into his lungs.

"And while I may not always monitor what I put into it," the smirk that spread across Clint's face almost had Phil putting his face to his palm before the archer even finished what he was going to say, "I  _always_  monitor what I put it  _into_."

Natasha hadn't looked that annoyed in a while. Phil tried again to clear his airway with meager success.

"You're disgusting." She practically hissed.

"Again the tone of surprise."

"идиот." She rolled her eyes and pushed against the side of his face with her hand, prompting Clint to chuckle and lean forward towards his oatmeal again. Natasha shook her head and stood. "I've got my debrief in ten. Wanna spar after that?"

"I'm gonna pay for that comment, aren't I?"

Phil thought Clint actually looked mildly repentant.

Natasha smirked and leaned down to speak right next to Clint's ear – too low for Phil to hear. When Clint suddenly cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, Phil was  _really_  glad had hadn't heard. Natasha straightened with a triumphant smirk.

"See ya, boys."

Phil watched Clint watch Natasha walk away.

"You two should be a little more discreet."

Clint rolled his eyes.

"Phil, there's like two other people in here right now – the breakfast crowd is still half an hour out."

Phil raised an eyebrow.

"I meant for  _my_  sake."

Clint chuckled, lifting a spoonful of sugary oatmeal into his mouth. Phil cleared his throat and watching Clint closely for a moment – gauging his mood.

"So I ran into Todd on my way here this morning."

Clint paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth, shifted slightly, and then finished taking the bite.

"What'd he have to say?"

"Said he had a long night – and that maybe you did too."

Clint's eyes shifted away briefly.

"Figured he wouldn't keep it to himself."

"He was just worried about you."

Clint nodded, sitting back in his chair again and abandoning his spoon into his half empty bowl. Phil eyed the abandoned food, wondering briefly at his odds of getting Clint to finish his meal.

"You okay?"

Clint shrugged.

"As okay as I ever am, I guess."

"You realize that's not exactly comforting, right?"

"Relax, Phil," Clint granted him a genuine smile. "I'm good."

Phil assessed Clint's gaze closely for a long moment before nodding.

"Todd didn't tell me what it was about."

"Probably because I didn't tell  _him_."

"You gonna tell me?"

Clint chewed the inside of his lip and absently turned his spoon over in the cooling oatmeal. Phil tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing.

"It was your parents."

Clint dropped the spoon with a clatter and huffed out an annoyed breath.

" _How_  do you do that?"

"I know you, kid – pretty damn well at that."

Phil also knew – down to the smallest facial tick – Clint's expressions after each kind of nightmare. And the look in his eyes right now, the set of his jaw, this was an expression he had only seen a handful of times over the past seven years. But it was also one of the least concerning. Clint had dealt with losing his parents long ago. It wasn't so much their death that haunted him. It was the memories. The knowing what he'd had – and what he'd lost.

It was that he knew Clint sometimes wished with everything he had that he could just go  _back_.

"Phil?"

Phil blinked.

"I thought I was the broody one."

"Oh," Phil smirked, "you most definitely are. I was just thinking about how many miles I was going to make you run today – since you practically ate two whole pizzas by yourself last night."

Clint groaned.

* * *

End of Chapter Two

All is well in the world of the firm of Barton-Romanoff-Coulson...but will it remain that way? Most assuredly NOT! Embrace it while it lasts, because tomorrow the s*** will hit the fan :)

Anybody feel a few tears well at the memory of how good Clint had it before the accident? An AWESOME dad, a loving mom, and a brother that actually treated him well...

Anyways, thanks for reading!

But reading comes with a price! Anyone who wishes to read through my stories must pay a tax!...okay so you don't have to pay anything - you're enjoyment is payment enough for me...but if you wanted to drop a line in that comment box, I'd be eternally grateful...

Here's your preview!

* * *

_"Clint?"_

_He flinched, twisting in the bed and leveling the gun at Natasha's forehead. She didn't move a muscle, just met his eyes._

_"You with me?" she asked warily._

_He blinked, sliding his finger off the trigger. Then he swallowed thickly around his ragged breathing and glanced around the room once more before nodding._

_"Then why don't you put the safety back on…and give me the gun."_


	3. I Still Wake Up, I Still See Your Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to those who commented on the first couple chapters! :D
> 
> Enjoy chapter 3!

  
_You never know how much you really believe anything until its truth or falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you.  
_ _**C.S. Lewis** _   


* * *

Natasha swallowed a mouthful of water from her bottle and watched Clint out of the corner of her eye. He was gulping down some Gatorade, sweat dripping down his temples. Natasha chewed the inside of her lip and set down her water bottle, drifting to his side.

"You didn't ask for a break because you were worried about my leg, did you?"

Clint arched an eyebrow at her doubtfully.

"Of course that's why I did it, you leg's hurting, isn't it?"

Natasha twitched her eyebrow, but didn't admit to anything. Clint's expression softened.

"It's only been a month, Tasha – you don't have to be a hundred percent yet."

Natasha nodded slightly and glanced around – making sure Bryan and Phil were out of earshot.

"Neither do you, you know."

Clint froze with his Gatorade halfway to his mouth.

"I'm fine." He brought the bottle to his mouth and took a quick drink.

Natasha hardened her gaze. He should know better than to use that line on  _her_.

"You're tired." She accused. "And before Budapest, you'd still be bouncing off the walls after a sparring session like that."

Clint screwed the cap onto his Gatorade and all but slammed it down onto the bench.

"What do you want me to do? Pussy out and go take a nap?"

"No – I just want you to own up to it before you have more  _'training accidents.'_ "

Clint rolled his eyes.

"I'm  _fine._ "

"You say that to me again, and I'll lay you out right here."

She was sick of watching him suffer in silence.

Clint scowled, but didn't argue her capability of doing just that. Instead he shook his head and turned to sit on the bench, looking up at her with a rare hint of helplessness in his eyes.

"What do you want me to say? That bitch's cocktail knocked me on my ass –  _hard_. And no matter what I do or how hard I push, I feel like I'm running up a goddamned mountain that never ends."

Natasha sighed and glanced over at Bryan and Phil. They seemed to be deep in a discussion about something and weren't paying them any attention. Satisfied, Natasha moved to crouch in front of Clint.

"What can I do?"

"Push me." Clint answered instantly. "And when you see me fading, push me harder."

"Clint…" That seemed to be the path that would lead to  _more_  training accidents.

"I need to be ready. When the time comes to go after Williams, I need to be able to get it done."

Natasha sighed.

"When the time comes," she waited until she was sure she had his complete attention, "you won't have to do it alone."

The corner of his mouth turned up and he reached to briefly squeeze her hands where they were folded in front of her.

"I know."

Natasha turned her hands, squeeze his back and then she stood.

"Now, come on – get your lazy ass up," she smirked and backed towards the mat, "so I can kick it back down."

Clint's answering smirk was a mixture of predatory and playful.

"We'll see whose ass is on the ground at the end of the day."

She arched a challenging eyebrow.

_Oh, it was on._

* * *

"He's tapped out and she's been favoring her leg for the past twenty minutes – they both need a breather and I'm not talking a 15-minute break. I'm talking vacation."

"Clint hasn't been out on assignment since Budapest and Natasha got a milk run surveillance mission. They haven't exactly been hitting it hard lately."

"You asked my opinion and there it is."

Phil sighed. He knew Todd was right. But getting either of those two knuckleheads to admit they needed a break was next to impossible. Not with an impending confrontation with Williams hanging over their heads.

He shook his head. He'd probably pulled more miles out of Clint this morning that he should have. That must have drained the kid's reserves because by the end of that sparring match he'd practically been dragging. And Natasha, usually all aerial acrobatics, had barely left the ground for the last fifteen minutes of the match.

He glanced over Todd's shoulder at the two objects of their conversation and whatever response he had for Todd died on his lips. Instead he couldn't help but shake his head in fond exasperation.

"Tapped out, huh? Did anybody tell _them_  they needed a breather?"

He nodded his head towards the pair of assassins across the room, who were circling each other on the mat. And if he knew anything about Clint and Natasha – and he liked to think he did – this was going to be good.

Natasha moved first – as she usually did. One moment she was shifting like a panther stalking its prey, the next she was a blur in the air, feet angling towards Clint's head.

"Favoring her leg, you said?" Phil smirked over at Todd.

The other man blew out a disgruntled huff and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Barton must have pissed her off."

Phil tilted his head in assent – that  _was_  a likely possibility.

After that the two assassins were nothing but a blur. For a while, they both seemed like nothing had changed. Like Budapest had never happened. Natasha had never been shot, Clint had never been poisoned.

It was Clint he saw it in first. Subtle retreats, chest heaving a little more than normal. He was fading. Natasha kept pursuing, her own recovery not seeming to catch up with her as quickly.

With a thud, her boot sent Clint's back slamming into the wall.

"That's enough." Phil moved onto the mat, already preparing a viable excuse to call it a day.

But neither of them moved – to back down, or otherwise.

* * *

Clint let the wall hold him up while he sucked air back into his lungs, eyes locked on Natasha's.

"That's enough."

Phil's directive had her arching an eyebrow in question.

Clint worked his jaw. God, he was tired. His eyes twitched down to Natasha's leg when she shifted her weight almost too subtly to notice.

Out of nowhere, he had a flash of memory. Natasha, tied to a chair, leg bleeding from a bullet Alex Moreno had put there. All because of Williams.

 _Fucking_  Williams.

He had to be ready – he  _had_  to.

So he nodded at Natasha. She took a breath and nodded once in return.

Then she was on him, elbow angling towards his jaw.

Clint caught her elbow in his hand and pulled her off balance, pushing her to the side as he spun away from the wall, crouched in his defensive stance.

He would be ready when he had to take down Williams – ready to face that bastard and anybody he had with him. He would do whatever he had to so that son of a bitch never hurt anybody he cared about again.

A wave of adrenaline swept through him.

He crouched under Natasha's leg as it arched towards him, bracing his left hand on the ground and lashing out with his own legs, kicking her weight bearing leg out from under her. He stayed low to the ground and he spun his body around his hand, coming to a stop in a low crouch. Then he launched into a back handspring, giving himself some distance.

Natasha was already springing off the floor. He never  _had_ known her to just hit the mat. She always managed to turn a fall into a move. Now was no different. Any normal person would have just landed on their back – Natasha, she braced her hands on either side of her head and coiled her body even as she fell.

No sooner had her shoulders touched down, than she was exploding back up again. She ran at him, planting one foot on his thigh and using him as a platform as she brought her leg around, angling for his head.

Clint arched backwards, air shifting in front of his face as her leg passed over him. He brought his hands up and pushed hard on the back of her leg. The added momentum forced her into a spin. She brought her leg down and did an awkward spin/stumble to gain her balance back on the mat.

She glared at him – it wasn't often anyone could make the Widow look anything less than graceful. Clint shrugged in vague apology. She came again, swinging with her right fist. Clint blocked the hit, twisting his arm around hers and locking it against his side. She swung with her left, he repeated the defense. Now both her arms were trapped.

"Sloppy, Nat."

She smirked.

"Nat…"

She pulled backwards suddenly, curling her knees up to her chest and slamming her boots into his chest. He was forced to release her arms in favor of keeping his ribs intact. She landed on her back, rolling into a backwards somersault and to her feet. Clint waved a scolding finger at her.

"Not nice."

She shrugged and he rolled his eyes.

This time when she came at him, he didn't bother blocking. He just ducked her attempted kick, and spun away. He dodged her flurry of punches and flying elbows next, never letting her make contact. He saw her spin, leg coming up and headed for his ribs. He crouched and exploded up, arching backwards. He barely cleared her leg as he curled his body into the flip.

He landed in a crouch, and immediately kicked out low at her legs. He straightened slightly even as she fell, and slammed his palm against her collar bone. The added force kept her from springing back up or from rolling away.

He shifted his hand around the base of her throat, pulled her up and pulled her to his chest. He managed to get both legs wrapped around her waist and got his arms wrapped around her neck.

She huffed in frustration, flailing uselessly – but they both knew it was over. If this was a real fight, her neck would be broken right now. She tapped his arm and he fell back on the mat, breathing hard.

She twisted, still between his legs, bracing one of her hands on the floor and looking down at him.

"Jesus," she breathed out with a gasp. "Where the hell did that come from?"

Clint lifted his hands and dropped them back down to show he didn't know.

"You haven't moved like that since…"

"Before Budapest?" Clint sighed, bringing a hand up to scrub across his face.

She nodded.

"Where'd it come from?"

"Just got my second wind, I guess."

She arched her eyebrow.

"That's a  _hell_  of a second wind."

He shrugged.

"You two okay?"

Phil and Bryan both came to crouch next to them.

Clint pushed himself up so he was leaning back on his hands.

"I'm good," he glanced at Natasha, "you good?"

She nodded.

"I'm good."

They both looked at Phil and Bryan, whose eyes were wide. Clint couldn't blame them. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken down Natasha. Before Budapest, that was for damn sure.

"You two good?"

Bryan snapped his mouth closed from where it had been hanging open and Phil just arched an eyebrow.

"Yesterday you're letting me dislocate your shoulder and today you're taking down Romanoff like it's an everyday thing. Forgive me if I've got a little whiplash." Bryan gave them both a dry look and stood.

Clint winced and glanced at Natasha – who was suddenly glaring at Bryan. Phil hid a grin behind a fake cough and averted his gaze.

"So it was  _you_?"

"Oh damn, would you look at the time." Bryan started backing towards the exit. "I've got a hand to hand class to go teach."

"Bryan."

"See you kids later!" The door swung closed behind him.

"It  _was_  an accident, Tasha." Clint assured, suddenly concerned for Bryan's immediate safety. "More my fault than his."

She turned her glare on him.

"Oh, really?"

Clint cleared his throat nervously.

"No – you know what? All Bryan's fault."

She rolled her eyes.

"You two done?"

They both looked at Phil.

"Care to share  _where_ exactly that little exchange came from? I seem to recall issuing a stand down."

Clint shrugged.

"I gave her the go ahead."

"After she'd kicked you into the wall." Deadpan – one of Phil's specialties.

Clint nodded.

"And that seemed like a  _good_  idea?"

"I gotta push past the fatigue, Phil. I gotta be ready."

"Oh I get that," Phil assured. "I'd just like to know when you had time to take a steroid shot."

"It was easy." Clint sat forward and criss-crossed his legs and stole a sideways glance at Natasha. "I just remembered what's at stake."

Phil nodded and squeezed Clint's shoulder.

"You two go get cleaned up – meet me on the roof in 15. I got a call today. Some of our leads have finally panned out and it's time to start making plans."

* * *

"That's him." Clint handed the black and white surveillance photo back to Phil.

"You're sure? You took a lot of contracts during that year, Clint."

Clint tossed a dark look at Natasha. She raised her hands in silent apology.

"Where is he?" Clint turned his gaze onto Phil.

"Athens."

Clint nodded.

"You think this will work, Phil?"

None of them said anything for a long moment.

"It's either this, Clint – and you try to make it right with him – or you kill him."

"I've never been against the second option." Natasha muttered darkly, crossing her arms across her chest.

Clint rubbed his hands up his face and into his hair, closing his eyes in frustration.

"It  _won't_  work, Phil. I can give him the guy that issued the contract, but Williams is still gonna want me dead. It's not gonna matter that I tried to make it right. I killed his  _daughter_. If someone iced  _me,_  would that be enough for  _you_?"

Phil sighed and rubbed his forehead. That, of course, was a resounding  _no_. But he couldn't tell Clint that, because that wouldn't be a productive addition to the conversation.

"Either way, you have to try, Clint. If we can get away with not having to take the bastard out and therefore  _not_  getting you put on the priority list, I'd like to."

He'd do whatever the hell he had to get Clint through this mess alive.

"Fine." Clint sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"We'll leave tomorrow." Natasha agreed.

"God, this sucks." Clint turned and moved to the edge of the roof.

Phil and Natasha shared a long glance and then she tilted her head towards Clint. Phil took a breath and headed to the edge of the roof.

"I'll see you guys down at dinner."

Phil didn't hear her move – just heard the door close behind her. He moved to stand next to Clint, staring out over the base with him.

"This is a good thing, kid. This is our best chance at ending this."

"I know." Clint sighed. "I'm just…" He shook his head.

"Just what?" Phil turned to regard Clint's profile and waited.

"Tired." Phil could hear the truth of that in Clint's voice – a bone-deep weariness. A weariness that he knew had nothing to do with his lack of sleep last night. He wasn't sure if Clint wanted him to read in that far or not though, so he played it dumb.

"You're probably due for a good night's sleep."

Clint blew out a humorless chuckle and shook his head.

"That's not what I mean."

Phil blew out a breath.

"I know."

He didn't know what bothered him more – that Clint was admitting to anything at all, or that he had no idea what to say to him. Because the truth was, Phil was tired too.

* * *

"Then the man just starts stuttering about blisters in all the wrong places and has a full-on emotional breakdown right there in the middle of a combat lesson."

Everybody at the table chuckled as Todd finished his story.

"So naturally, instead of deal with it himself, Todd sends the blubbering mess to  _me_  – to treat the blisters, he said."

Dan glared good-naturedly across the table at his friend.

Todd tossed Dan a smirk.

Clint huffed a laugh, leaning back in his chair, one arm tossed over the back of Natasha's, the other hand absently moving his food around on his plate with his fork.

"Nothing but heart, are you, Bryan?"

Todd smirked, spooning a large mound of spaghetti into his mouth.

"You  _should_  have called in psych. It took me twenty minutes to get the guy to tell me why the hell he was in my infirmary."

Dan shook his head, but there was a telling smirk on his face.

"Sounds like you two had an eventful day." Phil couldn't hold back an amused grin as he twirled his own spaghetti onto his fork.

" _Every_  day is eventful at this three-ring circus we call a base." Dan shook his head. "If it's not  _you_  two," he pointed his fork accusingly at Clint and Natasha, and Clint's sudden expression of innocence matched Natasha's, "giving me an aneurysm, it's Bryan driving recruits to breakdowns, or an idiot being an idiot."

"You mean you've got more than just Barton fitting that last bill?" Todd smirked evilly at Clint.

Clint smirked dryly back and raised a single finger to the man in response.

Phil rolled his eyes and debated momentarily whether to rat out Natasha's hidden grin.

"Now that you mention it – Barton probably deserves his own category."

"Bite me, Wilson."

"Sorry, kid, I don't bat for that team."

Clint rolled his eyes and Phil hid a grin behind a fake cough.

It was nice to see Clint loosening up a little. The kid had been wound tighter than his bow string lately.

"Oh trust me, Wilson. We  _all_  know what team you bat for."

Dan glared across the table, but there was a telling redness spreading up his neck.

Natasha arched a questioning eyebrow at Clint and he grinned.

"We all got an unexpected backstage pass to Wilson's  _extracurricular_ activities yesterday."

"Shut up, Barton."

Clint continued as if Dan hadn't spoken.

" _Braxton_ , believe it or not."

Natasha's eyebrows rose in surprise and she gave Dan an approving nod.

"Barton!"

"What?" Clint laughed. "It's not like it's a secret." He smirked. "At least, not anymore."

Wilson's glare might have been more intimidating if his face hadn't turned red.

"Clint." Phil wasn't really scolding him. He just figured he should intervene on Dan's behalf since it didn't seem anyone else was going to.

Clint raised his hands in acquiescence and fell silent.

"You're an ass, Barton." Dan still looked disgruntled.

Clint smiled, putting his hand to his heart.

"Aw, Wilson, you're filling me with warm fuzzies."

Dan rolled his eyes and gave way to the grin that had been trying to fight its way free. Todd had been straining to hold in his own laughter throughout the entire conversation, and it finally burst forth. Natasha smiled as she watched the entire thing and Clint was still leaning back in his seat – amusement written across his expression.

Phil shook his head, only barely managing to keep his own face neutral.

They should time their dinners with Todd and Dan's more often – it was  _always_  amusing.

* * *

" _See you tomorrow! We'll do lunch!"_

_Brianna Williams waved to her friends as their cab pulled away._

_Clint kept his eyes focused on the book he was reading as she walked by his outdoor café table. He took a final sip from his coffee and then stood. Her car was parked right around the block. There was an alley between here and there._

_More people should pay attention to alleys when they were walking – especially at night._

_He knew for a fact that Brianna Williams wouldn't be paying attention to that alley – or to anything else around her. She'd be paying attention to one thing – her cell phone. The thing was practically glued to her face._

_He followed her around the corner, lengthening his stride and coming up silently behind her. She had just sensed him behind her when he reached around, wrapped a hand around her mouth, and spun them both into the alley._

_He held her against the wall, one hand on her mouth, the other on her throat, and listened. There were no screams, no shouts – no one had noticed._

_Good._

_He pulled away his hand from her neck and reached to his back, pulling his knife._

_It wasn't until then that he saw her face._

_She was crying and saying something into his hand over and over. Her eyes were terrified. She didn't know why this was happening – why he had come for her._

_That really sucked for her._

" _I'm sorry."_

_Confusion broke through the terror for a moment – then she saw him bring the knife up and the terror was back._

_He slid the blade across her throat smoothly, silently guiding the body to the ground. He looked up and down the alley as he cleaned the blade on her coat, then he slid it back into the sheath at his back. He reached into his jacket, carefully pulling out an arrow he'd brought with him._

_He had to leave his calling card – it was the only way to make sure no one else claimed the contract._

_He blew out a breath and closed his eyes. Then he clenched his jaw, opened his eyes and slammed the arrow home into her chest, where her heart was._

_He stood, stripping off his gloves and shoving them into his jacket pocket._

_Another day, another dollar._

_He moved towards the mouth of the alley._

" _Why?"_

_Clint froze._

" _Why did you kill me?"_

_He turned slowly, mouth going dry. It was hard not to recognize that voice. He'd spent weeks eavesdropping on it._

_Brianna Williams was standing in the alley, blood soaking her shirt and the arrow still sticking straight out from her chest._

_His hand twitched in the direction of the Desert Eagle he kept in a holster at the small of his back, its twin was in a shoulder holster, hidden under his jacket. But he didn't draw it – not yet._

" _You should be dead."_

_She tilted her head to the side, her long blonde hair shifting from the slight breeze._

" _Oh I am, Clint Barton. I'm dead all right. Because_ _ **you**_ _killed me."_

_She smiled silkily._

" _And now…my daddy's gonna kill you."_

_Clint's neck tingled and he spun – right into a flying fist. He stumbled back a step – wide eyes taking in the sight of a raging Matthew Williams. Clint backpedaled._

_What the fucking hell?_

" _You killed her! You killed my baby girl!"_

_Williams ran at him. Clint pulled his gun from his back, brought it to bear, and fired._

_At nothing._

_Williams was gone – so was the girl. He turned, breathing harshly, and searched the entire alley with his eyes. He was alone._

" _I'm going to kill you, Barton."_

_He spun, but there was no one there – just a voice, a phantom._

" _But first…I'm going to make you pay."_

_Clint turned again – determined to find the source of the haunting whisper._

_Phil._

_He was in a heap at the other end of the alley, not moving._

" _NO!"_

_He ran towards him, but just as he went to his knees at his side, he was gone. He spun in a frantic circle on his knees, the hard pavement cutting into his pants._

" _Phil!"_

" _He's dead, Barton!"_

_Williams strolled down the alley towards him, his daughter following at his shoulder._

" _They're all dead – because of you."_

_Clint flinched when Natasha was suddenly on the ground next to him. He reached for her just as he realized there were more bodies. Phil was on his other side. Wilson and Bryan were piled across the alley. Fury was collapsed against the wall._

_Clint shook his head._

" _No…I didn't know. It was just a job. It's not my fault." That's what Phil had told him. What_ _ **everybody**_ _had told him._

_William's voice was suddenly a whisper next to his ear._

" _You don't really believe that…do you?"_

* * *

Clint lurched back to consciousness with a gasp – blinking blurrily at the dark room down the sights of his Desert Eagle.

"Clint?"

He flinched, twisting in the bed and leveling the gun at Natasha's forehead. She didn't move a muscle, just met his eyes.

"You with me?" she asked warily.

He blinked, sliding his finger off the trigger. Then he swallowed thickly around his ragged breathing and glanced around the room once more before nodding.

"Then why don't you put the safety back on…and give me the gun."

Clint frowned, thumb drifting towards the safety switch on the gun he still had pointed at her. Sure enough – it was switched off. He lowered the weapon and shifted the safety back into place. Natasha shifted next to him, carefully reaching to take the gun from him.

"You've never slid the safety off coming out of a dream like that."

He shook his head. She was right. Jesus, he could have killed her.

"You okay?"

He rubbed his hand across his eyes and sighed.

"Guess I should stick with a knife, huh?" He offered a weak grin. She quirked her lips.

"You'd have never gotten a shot off."

He smiled. He'd been on the wrong end of enough of her bad wake-ups to know she wasn't going to hold this against him any more than he did her. She inclined her head to catch his eyes.

"I'm not gonna ask again."

"I'm fine."

"I'd call bullshit – but I doubt it'd get me anywhere."

Clint twitched an eyebrow in agreement. She knew him pretty damn well.

He slid out of the bed and reached for his pants.

"Want me to come with you?"

He knew she would – in a heartbeat. He'd do the same for her. But he just wanted to lose himself in the range – wanted to lose himself in his bow. He didn't like anyone – not even Nat or Phil – to see him like that.

"Nah – go back to sleep."

She stared hard at him for a moment before slowly nodding. Clint nodded back and pulled on a t-shirt, then his boots. Then he reached for his bow and quiver on his dresser.

"If I'm not back by the time you get up, I'll meet you for breakfast."

She nodded and then he slid out the door.

* * *

Clint slid down the half wall of cinder block he'd been using as 'cover' and sat, sucking air back into his overworked lungs. He didn't even want to bother checking his time. He could tell by the new level of exhaustion he'd managed to reach that the time was gonna be too slow for his liking. That didn't matter, though.

Tonight wasn't about improving his time.

He looked down at his left hand, clenching it into a fist to stop the subtle tremble that had settled in. He closed his eyes, dropping his chin to his chest and forcing himself to take deep breaths. He'd been at the combat range for over two hours – hadn't stopped for anything but water until now.

Clint opened his eyes, staring at his hand again.

He'd promised Phil once – a long time ago – that he wouldn't use his bow as a punishment. That he wouldn't punish himself with the one thing that was more a part of who he was than his own  _name_.

He was no better than he had been almost seven years ago.

He was just as weak as he'd always been.

Clint clenched his jaw and stood, nocking an arrow and letting it fly. The timer beeped as it started but Clint was already moving. All he could hear was his blood pumping in his ears, all he could feel were his muscles burning as he pushed himself harder and faster.

* * *

Natasha sighed and rolled over in the bed, blinking into the darkness at the bedside clock.

_**3:37** _

Over two hours since he'd left. She twisted, looking over her shoulder, but she already knew he wouldn't be there. Even asleep, she'd have noticed him returning. With another sigh, she dropped back onto her back.

Tonight was just gonna be one of  _those_  nights apparently.

She curled back onto her side, pulling Clint's pillow towards her and resting her head on it instead. She closed her eyes and relaxed, allowing sleep to pull at her again.

* * *

Phil yawned and signed his name to the bottom of the form he'd just finished filling out. Why did it feel like the paperwork  _never_  ended? He shifted the form to the completed pile resting next to him on the bed and looked down at the next page he had to sign.

He sighed suddenly and glanced over at his phone.

Call it a gut feeling – but he suddenly had the unreasonable urge to call Clint. The archer  _should_  be asleep – getting some  _very_  needed rest. But something felt unsettled in the back of Phil's mind – the same thing that had led him to the roof in the middle of the night more than a few times.

They were past that though – past him having to drag the truth about his nightmares out of Clint. They'd been past that for a long time.

Phil looked back at his pile of paperwork.

* * *

A light knock came at Dan Wilson's office door. When no response was immediately forthcoming, Nurse Jamie quietly pushed it open, peeking her head in.

She made an 'oops' face when she saw Dr. Wilson dead asleep on his couch. The poor man had barely stepped foot out of the infirmary in the last two days. She bit her lip and silently tiptoed into the office. As quietly as she could, she rested the stack of patient charts on the edge of his desk and tiptoed back to the door.

With exaggerated caution, she pulled the door closed behind her as she left.

* * *

"Get your  _ass_  moving, Baxter!" Todd shook his head and rolled his eyes. Baxter wasn't going to make it through this program. The guy just wasn't cut from the right cloth – didn't have enough drive in him. Tonight – running night maneuvers – was going to be Baxter's last chance at redemption.

Todd sighed and uncrossed his arms, walking across the dark field towards where his recruits were congregating. Movement in the trees caught his eye and he paused – turning in that direction.

He cocked his head.

He could have sworn he'd seen someone.

Something in his gut tightened in warning, years of instincts telling him that it didn't matter that he couldn't see anything amiss right now. Something was wrong.

Todd turned and ran towards his recruits.

"On me!"

The group hadn't even gotten fully turned to face him when an explosion suddenly rocked across the training field. Todd turned in time to see what used to be the east wall of the main training gym reduced to a mountain of flaming rubble.

* * *

Clint sent an arrow flying home into the last target, a fraction of an inch to the right of the arrow from his last round. Then he turned, already bringing his last arrow up, pulling back on the string. The fletching brushed against his cheek as he sighted down its shaft. The timer was across the training area – but he had a straight shot to it.

As long as he wasn't even a fraction of a centimeter off his aim.

Clint let the arrow fly.

He watched it whistle through the air, passing over a half wall, between two staggered and angled walls – at his angle the opening was only about two inches, and through a gap between boards in a stack of crates. Then it slammed home and the timer beeped.

Clint turned away before he could see the time. He didn't want to see it – didn't care about it.

All at once the rush of adrenaline flowed out of him and he reached to brace himself against a pile of tires. His shoulders burned and no matter how much he clenched his hand, he couldn't stop the shaking.

Phil was gonna be pissed.

_Phil._

He should have just gone to him from the beginning – like he'd been doing ever since the Andes. He should never have fallen back into his old self destructive habits. It hadn't worked – he didn't feel better. If anything, he felt worse. Felt more hopeless about the whole damn situation than he had since it started. His stupid, weak seventeen-year-old self had put everything his nearly twenty-five-year old self cared about in jeopardy. He'd done this. He'd done it by taking that contract and killing Brianna Williams.

He stiffened suddenly.

He needed to talk to Phil – even if it was just for the guy to ream his ass for going to the range instead of to him. Because for as much as he  _knew_ it…he just suddenly needed to be reminded he wasn't alone anymore.

God, he was such a whiny little bitch sometimes.

Clint rolled his eyes at his own neediness and pushed off the tires. He almost left his arrows to come back for later. The combat range wouldn't open for a few more hours and no one would be the wiser if he just came back after talking to Phil.

But a team could have it reserved for an early session and he'd have no way of knowing. The thought of someone else pulling his arrows from the targets made his skin crawl.

Besides the feeling of a full quiver on his shoulders was a hell of a lot better than the feeling of an empty one. And a full quiver would look a  _lot_  less suspicious to Phil too.

He moved around the range, collecting his arrows, checking to make sure they were still flight worthy, and stowing them back in his quiver. He only had a few left, two targets worth and the ones on the timer.

He reached up, grabbing onto a thin ledge under one of the targets and pulling himself up. There was exactly one foothold he could use to stay up and with a little bit of contortion, he was able to get his left boot onto it. He pushed up, balancing easily on the one foot. He kept one hand braced on the ledge and reached for his arrows with the other.

He heard it first. An explosion – C4 by the sound of it.

A breath later the room shook – shook so hard his one foot lost its purchase and down he went.

Clint hit the ground hard on his back, but was able to use the fall's momentum to twist into a roll, coming up to his hands and knees.

Then he flinched and reached to cover his ears when red lights started flashing and the emergency alarm started blaring at an annoyingly high pitch.

* * *

Natasha's eyes snapped open. She was out of bed with her gun drawn before the muffled sound of the explosion had even faded away. She winced when the base-wide emergency alarm sounded a moment later.

* * *

Phil flinched, eyes going wide when a muffled 'boom' echoed through the walls.

"What the hell?"

He reached for his boots, standing even as he pulled them on. He didn't react as the alarm started blaring through the halls – he just reached to his nightstand and wrapped his hand around his sidearm.

* * *

Dan flailed to consciousness, landing on the floor with a thud as everything in his office shook.

"Holy mother…"

Dan climbed to his feet as red strobe lights on the walls started painting his office and an eerie glow and the alarm started screeching.

"What the hell?"

* * *

"What's the hell was that?!"

Fury demanded as he stalked into the control room from his office.

"I don't know!" Agent Maria Hill replied as she stood over, glaring over the shoulder of the security agent on duty.

"There!" The security agent pointed at his screen. "An explosion, east wall of the main gym."

Fury stared down at the screen and they all watched a mass of black clad, armed men pour through the empty space that used to be a wall.

"Agent Hill – initiate emergency lockdown protocols."

She stared at him, the eerie red glow from the emergency lights flashing off her eyes.

"We're under attack."

* * *

End of Chapter 3

And here we go! Show of hands for anyone that saw that coming? When the summary said fight where they lived...I was being literal! It's ON now...so get ready for a battle to rage!

Chapter four is headed your way tomorrow!

Getting comments is how I would imagine it would feel to be on the receiving end of a smirk from Clint...it sets my heart a-flutterin...

Here's your preview!

* * *

_"That one's mine."_

_She rolled her eyes._

_"I think **my** bullet to his brain did the job."_

_"I could argue that my arrow to his heart did it first."_

_She opened her mouth to tell him just how childish he was being when a sound behind them had them both spinning on the spot. Clint's arrow took down the man on the left a second after her bullet took down the one on the right._

_She nudged him and they moved. They'd argue about the kill count later._


	4. This Is It, Boys, This Is War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to all who commented! I love hearing what people think of my work!
> 
> Thank you to Kylen for her constant support and her patience as my beta :) The whole 'attack on the base thing' was her idea when she and I were talking about how I wanted to pursue the situation between Williams and Clint. So I thank her for that inspiration and you should too!
> 
> This story is dedicated to Kylen
> 
> On to Chapter Four...

  
_There's a thin line between life and death. It's God's Grace that shows us how fragile we all are.  
_ _**Timothy Pina** _   


* * *

Natasha jerked her pants up over her hips and pulled the hem of her black tank top down. She reached for her boots and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling them on smoothly and efficiently. Her phone started vibrating just as she pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail.

A candid photo she'd snuck of Clint a few weeks ago – a rare smile she didn't see much of these days – popped up on her phone. She nearly dove at the bedside table, swiping her finger across it and bringing it to her ear.

"Where are you?"

" _The combat range."_

"What the hell is going on?" She buckled her twin thigh holsters into place and snagged Clint's from the floor, hooking the belt over her shoulder. She dug his knife and sheath out of his bag next.

" _Hell if I know. Did you hear the blast?"_

Natasha moved to the door – listening closely for movement in the hallway.

"Yeah – any idea where it hit?"

" _Sounded like the main gym."_

"Clint…" Natasha put her hand on the door handle, "are we being attacked?"

Clint was quiet for a moment.

" _I'm gonna go with a yes on that one…we need to regroup."_

"I'll meet you in the briefing hall."

" _Room 2 – be careful."_

"You too."

She slid the phone down into her pocket and turned the door handle. She entered the empty hallway with her guns drawn and slowly and silently made her way away from Clint's room.

* * *

Clint pushed the combat range door open slightly, peering into the hallway. He jerked back when men decked out in black combat gear came marching around the corner.

"Shit."

He sprinted across the range, dodging around the makeshift cover installations. He stowed his bow at his back and took a running leap at the tallest structure in the room – a wooden tower meant specifically to provide a high vantage point. Though, 'high' for Clint wasn't quite the same as 'high' for others, and he'd bypassed the built-in perch several times in favor of going straight to the top. When he was up there, he was high enough to touch the roof if he really stretched and his balance was spot on.

He knew because his balance was  _always_ spot on and he'd tested it in that very spot several times. The range operator tended to get pissed when he did that – something about liability.

He made it to the top in what felt like record time and crouched, scanning the roof above him.

He blew out an annoyed breath. The vent cover was too far away. He'd have to  _jump_  to it – and hope he could get his fingers hooked in the grating before he went careening to the ground. He heard shouting in the hallway and grimaced.

"This is a bad idea."

He jumped. His fingers from his left hand wove into the grating while his right just slid right across the cool metal. Clint grunted and reached with his right, forcing his fingers under the edge of the grating. Then he pushed up with his left hand and shifted the vent cover panel up and into the vent.

He was still hanging there, legs dangling uselessly below him when the range door flew open. Half a dozen men poured through the door and Clint pulled himself up. He had to get into the vent and get that cover back into place before they looked up. He pulled his upper body into the vent and slid across the smooth metal until his legs were in too. Then he contorted, twisting in the vent and silently lifting the vent cover back into place.

He stared down through the grating, watching as one of the men swept his weapon sights up and around the top of the room. Clint closed his eyes and blew out a breath.

Too damn close.

He contorted again and slid away from the vent cover.

His heart nearly stopped when his phone started vibrating in his pocket, blasting his ringtone for Phil through the small space around him. He pulled the phone out and silenced the call, holding his breath and listening.

" _What was that?"_

" _Someone is in here – find them!"_

Clint slid away, as quickly and as silently as he could. He typed up a message to Phil one-handed as he moved. The last thing he needed was the man worrying enough to come looking for him because he didn't answer.

' _N vents - RV w/ N. we'll find u. watch ur 6'_

Clint slid his phone into his pocket, rolling his eyes at the overuse of texting jargon. He blamed the circumstances for his message looking like it was typed by a thirteen year old girl. With a sigh he kept sliding. Finally he stopped in front of a vent cover, pulled it up, and slid it out of the way.

Natasha looked up immediately from where she'd been pacing near the door. Clint gave her a jaunty little wave and slid his upper body out of the vent, gripping the edge with his hands. A moment later he flipped the rest of his body free of the vent and landed in a crouch on the floor.

"You run into anybody on the way here?" He asked as he rounded the conference table.

"No – I take it  _you_  did." She nodded at the vent and held out his holsters and knife.

He accepted the belt with an appreciative grin and buckled the holsters into place. Then he slid the sheathed knife into the back of his pants.

"A bunch of commando-looking asshats came in to clear the combat range – had to make a  _creative_  exit."

Natasha eased the door open and peeked out.

"Hill sent out a basewide alert," she held out her phone to him, "emergency lockdown protocol."

Clint scowled at her screen and then fished his own phone out of his pocket. Sure enough, an unread message was displayed on his screen.

"Protocol says we lock down our location and stay put." She arched an eyebrow at him – no doubt already certain that was  _not_ what they'd be doing. Clint smirked and deleted the message.

"I didn't get the message – must have been a glitch."

Natasha's lips curved into an answering smirk and she deleted her message as well.

Clint pulled his bow from its place on his back and snapped it out to full form.

"Phil will head for command – let's meet him there."

She nodded and he led the way out of the briefing room.

* * *

Todd shifted in the shadows, moving silently along the wall. He paused at the edge of the wall and carefully peeked around the corner. He drew back and held up two fingers, then pointed forward. One final signal for the recruits behind him to sit tight and he slid around the corner, staying low as he moved up behind the two black clad men posted at the door.

One of the men turned and Todd met him with a closed fist to the temple. He followed it with a kick that bent the man's knee inward and finished him with a hand on his chin and one on his head followed by a sharp twist.

He rolled to his left, dodging the spit of gunfire headed at him from the second man. Then he ran at the hostile, using both his hands to knock the gun away before the man could fire again. He snapped a stiff hand into the man's throat and then wrapped an arm around his throat, bringing the man against his chest.

Then he squeezed. The hostile struggled against him, but after a few moments those struggles weakened and eventually stopped. Todd added one extra squeeze and the man's neck broke. He dropped the man to the ground and let out a short, one-tone whistle.

Immediately the dozen recruits he'd had out in the field slid around the corner.

"Who can tell me what's through this door?"

There had never been a better teachable moment – these men and women were about to get a trial by fire.

"Back stairwell." A woman with short blonde hair spoke up immediately.

"Good, Bartella. There's a stairwell exit directly across from us onto level U-1, which is what?"

"Underground level one." A dark-haired, thickly muscled man answered.

"What's on that level?"

"The armory," Bartella realized with a smirk.

The rest of the recruits exchanged looks of realization.

"Exactly – we are going to get in there, arm up, and make these fuckers regret stepping toe-to-toe with SHIELD."

He could practically see the adrenaline surge through each and every one of them.

"Stay on me."

He picked up one of the downed intruders' guns and motioned for Bartella to pick up the other.

The armory wasn't far – just down the hallway once they got out of the stairwell. The real trouble was getting his twelve recruits down that stretch of hallway without getting killed. He hated flying blind – not knowing what they were facing or when they'd face it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it for now. With a deep breath, he led the way through the door.

* * *

Natasha felt Clint stop moving behind her so she stopped as well, looking over her shoulder at him.

He held up three fingers. She nodded and shifted, abandoning her job of covering their backs in favor of facing forward next to him.

She gave him a nod and together they rounded the corner. He went low to one knee and had an arrow flying even as she sighted her first target. She fired twice, each of her bullets finding a home in a man's head. Clint's arrows ripped into one man's throat, and another man's heart.

"That one's mine."

She rolled her eyes.

"I think  _my_  bullet to his brain did the job."

"I could argue that  _my_  arrow to his heart did it first."

She opened her mouth to tell him just how childish he was being when a sound behind them had them both spinning on the spot. Clint's arrow took down the man on the left a second after her bullet took down the one on the right.

She nudged him and they moved. They'd argue about the kill count later.

* * *

Todd held the door and waved the recruits into the armory. A few of them turned green as they were forced to step over the hostile he'd taken down to clear the way.

Once they were all safely in, Todd followed them and pulled the door closed.

"Vests and headsets for everyone. Make sure you have extra ammo. And you never know when a knife will be useful."

He pulled one of the TAC vests on and then exchanged the gun he'd taken from the intruder for one of SHIELD's, making sure he packed extra ammo into his cargo pockets. He'd give anything to have his own combat gear, which was currently in his closet in his room, but he'd have to make do.

With a sigh he slid a combat knife into the sheath on his vest and watched his recruits arm up.

They weren't acting like recruits – they were acting like agents. He felt a shot of pride.

This was why he loved teaching. He loved that moment when he got to see everything he'd put into someone – every moment of effort and instruction – be put to use. He loved that he prepared people – like these twelve recruits – to face moments like this. To face the most dangerous parts of their job and to be confident when they did.

And to think – he'd thought he'd given up on that dream when he'd joined the Marines. Former gang-banging son of a single mom, he hadn't had two pennies to rub together, much less money for college. And he'd wanted to go to college – he'd wanted to go more than he'd ever wanted anything. He wanted to do for other troubled teens when Mr. Carpenter had done for him.

He wanted to teach.

But to teach you needed college – and he learned very quickly after a handful of rejection letters that it just wasn't in his cards. A buddy of his had joined the Army – Todd chose the Marines. Little had he known, a few years later SHIELD would come knocking – and he'd get to become a teacher after all.

Todd couldn't help but smile slightly. Maybe he'd ended up right where he was supposed to.

"All right, recruits…training is over. Those guys out there are as real as the bullets they're firing. Watch each other's sixes and stay together."

He smirked and chambered a round on his automatic rifle.

"Let's go take out some trash."

* * *

"Get me a number! I've got people flying blind out there!"

Phil stepped into the chaos of the control room and immediately sought out the source of the barked command.

"Sir!"

Fury turned, relief passing through his eye for a moment before he waved Phil over.

"What's the situation?" Phil peered over Agent Hill's shoulder where she was pulling up various security cameras onto the main screen.

"East wall of the main gym is nothing but rubble. We've got multiple hostiles inside the base." Fury nearly snarled as they watched a security team get gunned down. "You have a 20 on your people?"

Phil thought back to the message he'd gotten from Clint.

"En route – should be here soon."

Another blast echoed through the base.

"Where'd they hit?" Fury demanded.

"Looks like they're trying to blast their way into the hangar. The door held that time, but it caused structural damage to most of the surrounding area." Hill reported clinically.

"We cannot let them get access to our jets." Fury glared at the screen. "Will that door hold?"

"I don't know." Hill looked as frustrated by her response as Fury was.

"I'm getting reports in from agents all over the base – they're waiting for orders." A communications specialist Phil knew to be named Jefferson was pressing earpiece to his headset against his head tightly. He looked scared.

Most everyone in the room but Fury did.

"Do we have a number yet?"

Practically the whole room turned and watched Clint and Natasha stride through the door, both looking ready to start spitting fire at something. Phil could almost feel the energy in the room shift. Everyone knew what the two assassins were capable of – and that knowledge, Phil knew, brought hope.

"Still working on it!" someone to their left announced.

"Work faster!" Fury demanded sharply.

Phil moved to meet his agents.

"You both okay?"

Natasha had a nasty-looking scrape on her cheek and there was a dark bruise already purpling on Clint's jaw.

"Hit some speed bumps getting here, but we're good to go." Clint shifted his grip on his bow.

Natasha nodded her agreement.

"What's the situation?" She asked as they moved to join Fury.

"That blast felt like it came from the main gym – was that their entry point?" Clint narrowed his eyes at the screen, counting black combat uniforms as they tore through the base.

"How did you know that?" Hill stared at him. "Where were you?"

"The combat range," Clint answered absently, keeping his eyes on the screens. "Isn't that the infirmary hall?"

"Jefferson! Order all available personnel to the infirmary. Intercept those teams."

Fury turned back to the rest of them.

"We lose the infirmary and we'll be up a shit creek – I need you two to get to the hangar. There's a team trying to bust through the door." He gave Clint and Natasha both meaningful looks. "Stop them."

Clint nodded sharply, and he and Natasha shared a look. Phil looked to Fury, arching an eyebrow. Fury sighed.

"Fine – go with them." He looked over his shoulder. "Where are those emergency comm units I asked for?"

"Right here." An agent Phil didn't know handed a box off to Phil, who opened it and held it out to Clint and Natasha. They each pulled out a handheld radio.

"What is this, the dark ages?"

"Sorry to offend your delicate tastes, Barton, the shiny ones are in tech." Fury rolled his eye.

"Why?"

"Routine diagnostics." Hill reported with a sigh.

Clint blinked.

" _Great_  timing."

"No shit." She muttered as she turned back to the screen.

"We need that hangar secured by any means necessary." Fury looked more serious than Phil had seen him in a long time. "If the infirmary goes down, we need a way to get our people out. We'll be on channel three."

Clint and Natasha both nodded and the three of them headed for the door.

Clint shifted his radio to channel four, the channel protocol dictated in emergency situations – at least until command said otherwise.

"Bryan, you out there?"

* * *

"That you, Barton?" Todd felt a wave of relief crash through him. Barton was alive – and that hopefully meant he had Romanoff close by.

" _The one and only – go to two."_

Todd switched his comm channel to two.

"I'm here."

" _I've got Tash and Phil with me."_

"What's your twenty?"

" _Headed to the hangar to take out some uninvited guests. Bryan, Wilson's about to have company – you need to make tracks to the infirmary."_

Todd straightened, looking out over his recruits and the dozen other agents he'd picked up as they struggled to clear the area.

"Copy that. What channel is command on?"

" _Three – I'll be on two if you need a hand."_

"Watch your six, Hawk."

" _Watch yours."_

Todd switched to channel three and reported in his location. Then he called for attention.

"We've got hostiles headed towards the infirmary. Our job is to stop them. We shoot to kill. Any questions?"

"No sir!" He hadn't had a group speak in such chorus in a while.

"Then let's move."

* * *

"Everybody stay down and out of sight. Stay away from the windows." Dan tipped a stretcher over and shoved it against the main door. He turned and checked that his personnel were all adequately hidden behind overturned stretchers and large pieces of equipment.

Satisfied, he jogged back to his office and dug through the mess of papers on his desk for his comm headset. He finally found it and slid the earpiece in, turning on the receiver and shifting it to channel 4.

" _Directors and team leaders – Command is on channel 3 – command related communication only – directors and team leaders – Command is on channel 3 – command related communication only."_

The line went to static briefly before frenzied agents started talking over each other over the line. Dan grumbled and shifted to channel 3.

"This is Wilson – I'm in the infirmary. What's the situation?"

" _Wilson, you've got hostiles headed your way – lock down that infirmary and do not let a soul inside."_

Fury sounded tense. Fury was never tense.

"I've got nothing but nurses and orderlies in here, what exactly do you expect me to do?"

" _Wilson – I'm less than a minute from your location. I've got you covered."_

Dan breathed a sigh of relief. Todd – thank God.

"Bryan, any word from our pain in the ass?"

" _He's with Phil and Romanoff – channel two."_

The sound of gunfire outside the infirmary had Dan ducking down and covering his head as bullets ripped through the walls of his office from the adjoining hallway.

" _Goddamnitall!_ "

Dan half crawled to his office door, pulling it closed behind him and looking out into the main room. Several nurses screamed when the windows started exploding as bullets tore into the room.

"Everybody stay down!"

Dan dove behind the intake desk and covered his head with his arms. He heard something heavy bounce across the infirmary floor. A nurse screamed.

"Grenade!" someone shouted.

The air cracked with the sound of the explosion, heat burning into his exposed skin. He heard what had to be shrapnel slamming into the intake desk he was sheltered behind. Then there was screaming and the horrible scent of burnt flesh reached Dan's nostrils.

He pushed himself up onto his knees, then to his feet and shifted slowly to look over the edge of the desk.

"Oh my god…"

He stood fully, staring at the bloody blast zone that used to be his infirmary.

Jamie – one of his nurses, was on the ground, half her body missing. Richey, an orderly, was holding his left thigh, just above where his leg had been blown off. Three other bodies he couldn't identify were collapsed in mangled heaps and equipment all over the room was smoking and sparking.

Dan moved.

"If you're still walking, get up and get moving! Get whatever equipment and materials you can salvage. Move now!"

* * *

Clint shifted, pressing his back against the wall and easing his head around the corner. He pulled back half a breath later.

"Seven. All armed. Headed this way."

"We make too much noise, we'll just bring anybody close down on us." Natasha pointed out.

"So we go silent." Phil nodded at Natasha's gun, which she holstered immediately. She drew a knife from her boot. Clint pulled his from the back of his pants and handed it hilt first to Phil.

Phil didn't waste the time or breath it would take to argue – he just took the blade with a nod of thanks.

"Ready?"

Clint nodded and pulled an arrow from his quiver. He slid it into place and pulled back on his string, keeping the arrow pointed at the ground. Then they waited, listening. Clint closed his eyes and Phil knew he was visualizing where the approaching group was.

Abruptly, Clint nodded and they moved, rounding the corner.

Clint's arrow dropped the first man before he even knew what was happening. Natasha and Phil were on two more of them a breath later.

Clint drew another arrow even ask he spun and kicked the nearest man's gun out of his hand. As he completed the spin, Clint fired his newly-nocked arrow into the same man's throat.

Natasha was still dragging her blade across her first man's throat even as she braced her hand on his shoulder and vaulted towards the next one in the group. She twisted her legs around his neck and then spun to the ground, breaking his neck as she pulled him down after her.

Phil pulled Clint's knife free of his first man's throat and stepped to the next man, whose gun was coming up. Before Phil could move to kick it away, an arrow cut through the man's wrist. Phil dove forward, slamming his hand over the man's mouth and driving his knife up through his chin.

Clint turned back from putting an arrow through Phil's adversary's wrist, reaching back to his quiver. The final man dove towards him. Clint pulled an arrow free and grabbed the man's shoulder as he came into reach. Then he slammed the arrow into the man's neck.

He jerked it free as the man fell and raised it to his eye, looking down the shaft to make sure it wasn't damaged. Then he slid it back into his quiver. He turned and Natasha handed him two of the arrows he'd already spent. Phil handed him the third. He checked them quickly and returned them to his quiver.

"Shall we?"

"After you." Phil motioned Clint to lead the way.

* * *

Todd watched the last of the hostiles go down and turned to the shattered windows of the infirmary.

"Jesus Christ."

He moved to the nearest window, peering through the haze of dust and smoke.

"Wilson!"

"Over here!"

_Thank God._

Todd knocked away the remaining jagged pieces of glass with the stock of his rifle and climbed through the window. He saw Dan kneeling over a body, checking for a pulse. The man hissed a curse under his breath and sat back on his heels.

"You good, Dan?"

"Good?" Dan shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. "I am  _very_  damn far from good. But I'm not hurt if that's what you're asking."

The doctor turned to face him, and his gaze sharpened suddenly.

"You're bleeding."

Todd batted his hand away from the bleeding gash on his temple and then from the bullet hole in his arm. Dan gave him a glare.

"It can wait. What's the damage in here?"

"The damage?" Dan looked around and motioned sarcastically. "It's probably easier to determine what  _isn't_  damaged."

"Can you get this place up and running?"

Dan threw his hands up in frustration.

"I don't know! I've got five dead staff members and three more that are injured – I haven't had a chance to think about getting this place 'up and running.'" He even threw in sarcastic air quotes before trying to turn away.

"Dan." Todd caught his arm and gave the doctor an intense look. "I need to know if this infirmary is functional."

Dan stared at him and Todd watched the pieces click into place. The list of things that could warrant a base-wide evacuation during an attack was very,  _very_  short. The infirmary being compromised was one of those things.

You couldn't treat your wounded if you didn't have a place to treat them. The base would become a graveyard.

"It's that bad?"

Todd just dipped his head once.

"I'll have to see what equipment was damaged, what supplies we have. Give me ten and I'll have an answer."

* * *

Clint ducked back from the gaping hole where the hangar door used to be. Smoke from the charge that had taken the door down still hung in the air.

"I count nine."

"Personnel?" Phil checked his gun, frowning at the waning number of bullets. They'd run into some trouble on the way here and despite their best efforts, Phil was down most of his ammo, Clint half of his arrows, and one of Natasha's guns had clicked empty in the middle of their last scuffle.

Clint had since farmed out both his Desert Eagles – one to him and one to Natasha. The archer was at his best with his bow anyway.

With a sigh, Clint tossed aside a ruined arrow from the handful he'd recovered from the bodies they'd left in the hallway around the corner.

"Looked like about a dozen left. But there were at least that many bodies already."

Clint slid two arrows back into his quiver and tossed a final one aside.

"We need to move fast."

Phil nodded and lifted his walkie to his mouth.

"Director?"

" _Go ahead."_

"We've reached the hangar – hostiles are already inside. We are moving to breach."

" _Copy that. Get it done."_

Phil slid the radio back onto his belt.

"How do you want to do this?"

Clint blew out a breath and looked at Natasha, whose lips curved into a dark smirk.

* * *

Mike Barnes had worked at the New York SHIELD base for over fifteen years. In that time he'd gone from a grease monkey that worked maintenance on the jets to the lead mechanic, who did more shift scheduling and paperwork than he cared for. He got to choose what engines he worked on though, so it had its perks.

In all that time, he'd seen agents come and go. He'd watched teams leave for a mission and come back with smirks of victory and he'd watched teams leave for missions and never return. He'd seen any and every agent this base was home to step onto one of his jets at one time or another.

So when a lithe, feminine figure suddenly came strolling casually through the crater that used to be the hangar door, he knew they were saved.

He'd never spoken to Natasha Romanoff, but he'd seen her. He knew who she was, and knew that the assholes who'd been killing his people and destroying his aircraft for the past ten minutes were dead – whether they knew it or not.

The nine men all turned, staring at the assassin as she calmly approached.

"Hey, boys." She stopped and smiled silkily. "Got room for one more?"

For a moment everyone just stared.

Then a black arrow whistled over Romanoff's shoulder and slammed into one of the men's throat. Before Mike could blink, Romanoff had two guns raised and was firing precise, single shots. Two more men went down before the others could react.

Then Romanoff was diving off to the side, rolling behind a mobile metal tool chest. She was safe behind the cover just as the intruders started returning fire. While they were busy firing at the solid metal chest Romanoff was hunkered behind, another agent that Mike knew on sight slid silently into the hangar, an arrow nocked and the bow string pulled back to his cheek.

Mike still remembered the day Clint Barton first stepped foot on the base. You only had to look at the kid back then to know something dangerous lurked just below the youthful surface – something dark and to be feared.

That lurking danger hadn't disappeared. Instead, it had grown stronger instead – Barton just hid it a lot better these days. Which, when Mike thought about it, was a whole different reason to fear the man.

Barton had sent two arrows into two more men, before he too was forced to seek cover as the final four men shifted their attention – and their aim – to him. He ran for one of the cargo planes, sliding like he was aiming for home behind one of the large wheels.

All the men suddenly ceased firing.

Mike watched one of them aim at where Romanoff was, another aim at Barton, the third moved towards the mechanics and flight techs that were huddled in the middle of the hangar. Without any warning he shot one of the mechanics point blank in the head.

Mike frowned – one of the men was missing.

"Come out, or I'll kill them all."

"No, you won't."

Mike's eyes flew back to the hangar door – watching as  _another_  one of the most famous agents in SHIELD strode through. Phil Coulson fired a moment later and the man went down. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Romanoff dive out from behind her cover and take down the intruder nearest her with one well-placed shot.

Barton spun from behind the wheel and fired an arrow from his knees, taking out the man nearest him.

Mike looked around frantically. There was one more man. He knew there was. He saw a shadow behind Barton at the same moment the archer seemed to sense it.

"Behind you!"

* * *

Clint turned, hand going towards his quiver even as a shot cracked across the hangar. His eyebrows rose in surprise when the commando behind him stopped in his tracks, head snapping backwards.

Clint turned back to see Phil lowering his gun.

Clint blew out a breath and couldn't help but grin.

"Whew…that was  _close_."

Phil blew out a breath and looked a little less amused by the situation. Clint looked back at the dead man behind him once more –  _damn_ close – and stepped away.

"Is everyone all right?" Phil quickly moved towards the shaking group of hangar staff.

A man Clint knew to be the chief mechanic stood – Barnes if he remembered right.

"Do you know the situation in the rest of the base?"

Phil shared a glance with Clint and answered.

"Command is secure – other than that we don't know."

The group of hangar staff all looked even more shaken.

"Barnes, any idea what the damage is here?" Clint asked even as he brushed his fingers over a bullet hole in the frame of one of the jets.

"They just opened fire. I'd have to do diagnostics…check engines over…" Barnes ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"Get to it. We need as many birds as we can ready to be in the air."

Barnes nodded and started barking out orders to his remaining staff. Clint moved to stand with Phil and Natasha joined them a moment later.

"What do you think?" Phil asked him.

Clint knew his planes – he'd dedicated precious time and energy to learning everything he could about them. He flew so many missions solo – it paid to know how to do routine maintenance. He couldn't tell much just by looking, but what he could tell wasn't good.

"If too many of them took hits like that one, no one is going anywhere. Those guys came in here  _looking_  to keep us grounded. They aimed for engine blocks and the main cockpits."

Phil sighed and closed his eyes briefly.

"Goddamnit." He hissed under his breath as he pulled his radio off his belt.

Before he could call in, another call came across the command channel.

" _Command – this is Bryan."_

Clint felt a surge of relief – Bryan, at least, was still alive.

" _Go ahead."_  Fury's voice came across sounding just as cool and collected as ever. Clint wondered if the man ever really showed what he was really thinking – or  _feeling_.

" _The infirmary is compromised – I repeat – we've got no joy on the infirmary."_

Clint felt his chest tighten.

Wilson.

Phil glanced at him as they listened to Fury confirm that report. Then Phil pressed the talk button.

"This is Coulson. Bryan, do you have eyes on Wilson?"

There was a pause.

" _You better not be asking for me because Barton got himself shot again."_

Clint huffed out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Wilson sounded just as annoyed as ever. Thank God.

"Negative." Phil reached and squeezed his shoulder – whether for his benefit or his own, Clint wasn't sure.

" _Have you secured the hangar?"_

Clint took his previous thought back – Fury actually sounded…hopeful.

Phil sighed and looked to Barnes, who was clicking away on a computer.

"Hangar is secure."

" _Status?"_

"Barnes?" Phil called to the mechanic. Barnes looked up.

"We've got two cargo planes and three jets ready to go right now. That's it. Everything else is gonna take some time."

Phil squeezed the bridge of his nose.

"Director?"

" _Go ahead."_

"The hangar took heavy damage. We've got two cargo planes and three jets." Phil paused. "Director…"

" _I know, Phil."_

Clint knew too.

They couldn't stay.

* * *

"Director…" Hill looked up at him with wide eyes. "There could be another wave of hostiles on their way right now – without an infirmary and limited aircraft…" she paused, "we can't stay here."

Fury stared at the screens, watched various scuffles taking place throughout the compound. He watched a team of SHIELD agents get overrun by a team of intruders.

"Issue the order – get every one out."

Hill pressed a button on her headset – broadcasting her voice to all the comm units and radios in the base.

"This is Agent Hill. Emergency evacuation protocol is now in effect – report to emergency rendezvous point two. I say again – emergency evacuation protocol is now in effect – all personnel report to emergency RV two."

She pressed the button again and blew out a shaky breath. She couldn't believe this was happening – that someone had attacked SHIELD.

"That means you too, Agent Hill."

She looked up at Fury, her gaze hardening.

"I'll leave when you do, sir."

His lips quirked ever so slightly and then he nodded.

"Send out a distress message to all the bases in the network. Tell them we've come under attack and to send any personnel they can."

"Yes, sir."

"And Hill?"

"Sir?"

"Call the Helicarrier – tell them to prepare to take on all survivors."

"Yes, sir." She turned to her computer and accessed the secure network, quickly typing a distress message and sending it out. It wasn't until she finished her call to the Helicarrier that she turned to Fury and asked the question that had been burning in her mind.

"Sir?"

Fury turned to her.

"How did they breach the outer gates? They're coded and all the fences, even the fences in the woods, are set to alarms."

Fury clenched his jaw – like he knew something she didn't.

"I do not know."

* * *

"Barnes – you need to get these jets up and running so you can start shuttling people from the RV to the Helicarrier."

Barnes blinked at Phil in confusion.

"How do you know that's where we are supposed to go?"

"Because…" Clint threw down an arrow he'd been inspecting and headed for where Natasha was leaning against the wall, "where the hell  _else_ are we gonna go?"

They all looked to the gaping hole that used to be the hangar door when personnel started pouring through. A team of SHIELD agents brought up the rear.

"Take what people you can directly to the Helicarrier and then go back to the RV to pick up more." Phil instructed Barnes before shifting his focus to the group of agents. "Secure this area – and once those jets are airborne you escort non-combat personnel to the RV – understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Phil nodded and moved to Clint and Natasha, who were talking quietly at the wall. He watched Clint speak into his radio and caught what he was saying as he approached.

"You got a solid number yet?"

There was a pause.

" _Looks like we're down to about three dozen hostiles, Agent Barton."_

Hill sounded stressed – Phil could understand the feeling.

Clint clipped his radio back to his hip.

"I say we go hunting – help clear the compound and cover the personnel's evacuation."

Phil looked from him to Natasha, who looked equally resolved.

"We're right here," Phil offered. "We could evacuate with everyone else."

He knew what their answer would be – both of them – but he had to offer. Had to give them the chance to run away from the fight for once, instead of towards it.

Clint and Natasha shared a look.

"We stand the best chance at doing some damage," Natasha pointed out quietly. "And if another attack comes…" she sighed. "We might be the only ones who can keep it contained while the personnel get to the RV."

Phil felt a shot of pride. They were right – each of them, on their own, was worth an entire team of agents.  _Together_  – together they were nearly unstoppable.

But that wasn't why he was proud – once again, Clint and Natasha were putting themselves between danger and the innocents that danger was coming for.

He was god _damned_  proud.

"Besides – where's the fun in  _evacuating_?"

Clint smirked and pushed off the wall he was leaning against.

"I say we go kill some sons of bitches and we raise a little hell."

* * *

"Pack everything we can use in the bags. Carry anything you can, I have a feeling you'll be using up most of it before the night is over. Make sure you have your marker." Dan sighed. "We're probably gonna have to make some tough decisions, people. Focus on those you can help."

The remaining medical staff – many of whom had come directly to the destroyed infirmary as soon as the evacuation call was issued – all nodded solemnly.

"Remember – don't stop until you get to the RV. If they can't make it there, then you probably couldn't have helped them anyway. You need to get yourselves safe first or you aren't doing anybody any good." Todd spoke up from where he and his team stood at the door.

Dan nodded in agreement.

"Now get packing – we're leaving in two minutes."

The staff all fanned out, working quickly to gather what they could.

Todd moved to Dan's side.

"I cleared you a path to the nearest exit. I'm leaving one of the teams with you to make sure you don't run into any trouble."

Dan nodded.

"I've got it from here, Todd. Go kick some ass from me, huh?"

Todd clapped him on the shoulder.

"You got it."

He twirled his finger in the air.

"Bravo team – stay put – everyone else, let's move out."

Dan blew out a deep breath.

"Watch your ass, Todd!"

The agent threw an acknowledging wave over his shoulder as he disappeared out of the room.

Dan looked around the room and waved over the leader of the team Todd had left.

"Sir?" The man's attention on him was complete.

He looked shaken. Dan couldn't blame him.

"When we get to the RV – your team needs to help keep order. People are going to be panicking. Can I trust your team to do that?"

"Yes, sir."

Dan nodded.

"Do you know how triage works?"

* * *

Todd held his fist up to bring his team to a stop and tilted his head to listen. He licked his lips and brought his gun up. With a deep breath he nodded and rounded the corner.

"Hold your fire!" Todd shouted at the same time a matching command was issued in front of him. He breathed a sigh of relief as he took in SHIELD TAC vests and standard issue weapons.

"Todd?"

"Good to see you in one piece, Johnny." Todd reached to shake his fellow trainer's hand.

No sooner had their hands met than gunfire exploded around them. Todd watched Johnny fall, the side of his head exploding.

"Contact left!" Someone shouted.

"Take cover!" Todd ordered as he brought his gun up and returned fire.

"Look out!"

Todd barely had time to process the warning before a body slammed into his, bringing him crashing to the floor. He grunted in exertion as he pushed himself up, shouldering a heavy weight on his back. He was finally able to dislodge the weight and turn.

"Ah shit…"

He reached to feel Baxter's neck.

"Baxter?"

He saw three holes in the recruit's side, between the edges of the kevlar, just as he realized he couldn't feel a pulse. He tightened his hand into a fist in the young man's collar and then pushed to his knees, bringing his gun up. With the rest of the SHIELD agents backing him up, he stood and advanced.

Moments later the last hostile fell – it hadn't been a large team, only six men. But it had been enough.

Todd reached to his headset.

"Command, I need a fucking head count!"

They'd reported three dozen ten minutes ago, when Barton, Romanoff and Phil had undoubtedly gone on the hunt. But a lot could happen in ten minutes.

" _I count twenty hostiles remaining."_

Todd turned to the group of agents.

"Let's move."

It was almost over.

* * *

Natasha held up five fingers from her spot across the hall. She was standing on the opposite corner of Clint and Phil, all of them waiting on the team headed up the hall.

Clint bobbed his head once, then twice, then a third time and they moved. He sent his last two arrows into two of the men and watched Natasha bring down one, then another with her knife. Phil after a short exchange, jammed Clint's knife up through the fifth man's jaw.

"What's that make it?" Clint asked as he kicked over one of the bodies, preparing to pull his arrows.

"Gotta be under a dozen by now." Natasha brushed her wrist across her forehead tiredly.

"We should –"

Gunfire ripped through the air, interrupting whatever Phil had been about to say.

Instinctively, Clint jerked his arrow out of the body and nocked it, letting it fly half a breath later, even as he ran forward.

The arrow took down one of the men that had just rounded the corner, but the second man was still firing. A breath later Clint was on him, swinging his bow like a staff to knock the gun away. Then he spun and slammed his elbow into the man's throat. As he sputtered, Clint slammed his boot straight into the man's kneecap, bending the joint the wrong direction. Even as the man crumbled, Clint caught his chin in one hand and jerked it sharply up and around.

"Clint!"

He turned, his heart stuttering to a stop in his chest.

No.

He sprinted back the way he'd come, sliding to his knees next to Phil. Natasha had her hands pressed firmly against Phil's thigh, blood leaking through her fingers.

"Phil!" Clint called firmly, hands going to inspect the bloody mess on the side of Phil's head. A crease, right above his ear. Phil didn't even twitch as Clint felt for a pulse that was – mercifully – there, if not weak.

"He took another round in the chest." Natasha nodded towards Phil's bloody t-shirt, never letting up her pressure on his leg.

Clint clamped his hands over the wound an instant later, eyes running over the rest of Phil's body, looking for any other injuries. Finding none, he focused back on Nat's hands.

Blood – Phil's blood – was running through her fingers thickly. Too thickly. He was losing too much blood too fast.

"Clint – focus."

He couldn't pull his eyes away from the blood.

"Clint! Look at me!"

He snapped his eyes up to hers.

"I need your belt. We need to do a tourniquet and try and slow this bleeding."

He nodded numbly and shifted his hands, fumbling with his belt as he tried to remove it. He finally succeeded and held it out to Natasha with shaking hands.

"You have to do it." She instructed calmly. "I can't stop the pressure."

Clint swallowed and mechanically wrapped his belt around Phil's upper thigh, tightening it sharply. Natasha immediately reached to start ripping clothes off the bodies around them, folding them into crude bandages.

Clint forced himself to take a deep breath and pulled his radio from his belt, moving one hand back to put pressure on the chest wound.

"This is Barton – I need…" what the hell  _did_  he need. Help? Everybody needed help right now. Anyone that would do Phil any good was halfway to the RV by now.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

"Clint, we can't stay here." Natasha pushed his hand out of the way and pressed pads of torn and folded clothing onto the chest wound, tying it into place with two long strips she'd tied together.

Clint dropped his head into his hands, feeling his fingers slide against his face, leaving grotesque streaks of blood – Phil's blood – in their wake.

This couldn't be happening.

"Clint?"

Clint shifted his eyes to Phil's lax face as Natasha wrapped a piece of cloth around his head.

He had to pull it together.  _Now_.

"I'll carry him." Clint decided. "You clear the way."

She nodded sharply and snatched two automatic weapons off the dead men. Clint stripped his quiver off, abandoning it on the ground. It would get in his way. He would have left it and his bow there without a thought if it meant getting Phil out of here.

Then he grabbed Phil's shoulder's, pulling him to sit up and ducked under one of Phil's arms. With a grunt, he shifted Phil's boneless body onto his shoulders, hooking one of his arms between Phil's legs.

"You got him?" Natasha asked as he rose to his feet. He caught sight of his quiver hooked over her shoulder, his bow string stretched across her chest and the bow on her back.

Clint managed to communicate his thanks with his eyes and then nodded.

"Let's go."

* * *

End of Chapter Four

Oh snap! I just shot PHIL! :O Usually I shoot Clint! Did I just blow your mind?! Who's ready for some angst?

Dan's line over the radio " _You better not be asking for me because Barton got himself shot again."_ was ALL  **Kylen**  :) and she's particularly fond of that line, as am I:) lol It was also her idea to have getting shot be how I hurt Phil! :) gotta love brain storming!

I'll only post chapter five if you comment...JUST KIDDING! XD I'll post Chapter Five whether you comment or not! I don't hold chapters hostage, that's just silly XP Doesn't mean I wouldn't LOVE it if you DID comment though :)

Here's your preview!

* * *

_He reached out and wrapped his hand around Barton's bicep and jerked him roughly to his feet. Once he had Barton upright, he gave him a firm shake. Something in Barton's eyes cleared so Todd spoke while he had his attention._

_"You need to pull it together, kid. This isn't over – not by a long shot."_

_Barton blinked – his gaze focusing on Todd's._

_Todd almost took a step back. The amount of pain, the level of fear Barton was carrying right now…it was almost enough to rip Todd's emotions to shreds. Drawing in a shuddering breath, he shifted his hand from Barton's bicep to the back of his neck – squeezing gently._

_"I know, kid."_


	5. Some Terrible Nights...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thank you to Kylen for being my friend, my fellow author, and my beta :)
> 
> She is Dan's voice in ALL of this chapter and her friend Becky collaborated with her on the medical stuff. She's also the one that placed the bullet wounds on Phil. :)
> 
> Thanks to RoS13 for commenting :)
> 
> This story is dedicated to Kylen

  
_I think to have the skill set and the ability to physically help others in matters of life and death must be incredibly empowering._   
_**Karlie Kloss** _   


* * *

Natasha slammed her foot against the brakes of the jeep they'd commandeered from the motor pool. The vehicle slid forward as the tires struggled to find traction on the loose leaves of the forest floor. In the end, they ended up cockeyed on the road, but it didn't matter. The old dirt road was littered with similarly parked cars.

Natasha glared through the windshield for a moment and then flicked her eyes up to the rearview mirror. Clint was sitting with his back against the door, Phil pulled up against his chest. She forced herself to swallow past the lump in her throat as she watched Clint quietly talk to Phil, begging him to hold on.

She closed her eyes and blew out a breath. Then she turned in her seat.

"End of the line – we have to walk from here."

Clint was in motion immediately, reaching behind his back to open the door. He backed out of the jeep and for a moment just left Phil to rest on the seat. Natasha climbed out of the driver's seat and circled the vehicle to stand with him.

"Jesus Christ…" Clint breathed as they took in the chaos ahead of them.

They could see in the distance the clearing that was the actual rendezvous point. A jet was rising from it even now. But the distance between their jeep and the clearing was littered with bodies and survivors alike. People were helping other people along, some were carrying others, and a few were struggling along on their own.

"Let's go."

Natasha nudged Clint, though she kept her eyes on everyone around them – looking for anybody that would pose a threat. Clint leaned back into the car and pulled Phil out by the shoulders. A few moments later he had him in a fireman's carry once again.

"Ready?" She shifted her grip on her gun.

Clint nodded.

She led the way, keeping her pace quick and steady. Though she could hear his harsh breathing, Clint never lost a step behind her, not even with the heavy load he carried. They made it about three quarters of the way to the RV before they were forced to slow down.

Medical staff were running around, stopping people and checking the wounded. One of them headed for them and Natasha helped Clint ease Phil to the ground. The nurse leaned over the fallen agent and checked the wounds. Then she pressed her fingers to his neck and waited a few seconds.

"I'm sorry."

Without another word she used a marker to draw a large black X on Phil's forehead.

"What?" Clint nearly snarled, his own fingers going to Phil's pulse point. A moment later fire lit his eyes. "He's not dead."

The nurse moved away without responding.

"Hey!"

"Clint." Natasha put a hand on his arm to keep him from rising. He sank back down, his eyes going down to rest on Phil. Abruptly, he covered his face with his hands, staying that way for a long moment. And then he scrubbed them up into his hair. He glanced around, taking in the other wounded and finally seemed to come to a decision.

He pulled Phil up and over his shoulders for a third time and stood.

"What are you doing?"

His face was set in stone as he started forward.

"Skipping the line."

* * *

Clint shoved by a man that was holding his bullet-ridden arm to his chest and shifted his grip on Phil. This wasn't over – he wasn't just going to  _give up_. No matter what the damn nurse marked Phil with.

His back ached from carrying too much weight for too long, his legs were starting to shake with fatigue. But he didn't stop, stepped over a groaning man that had the same black X marked on his forehead as Phil.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

Clint ignored the call and started shouldering his way through the throng of people circled around the landing zone. A hand suddenly latched onto his bicep, pulling him around. Before Clint could even react, Natasha was there, grabbing the man's hand and forcefully detaching it from Clint. Half a breath later, the man was on his back, groaning.

Clint was already moving again. He broke through the front of the crowd, scanning faces – looking for one, the only one he knew could or _would_  help.

"HEY!"

An agent in a TAC vest moved towards him, but Clint ignored him, leaving him to Natasha. Instead, he moved closer to the line of jets in the clearing. He had to be here –  _somewhere._  Clint passed the first jet, panic starting to rise in his chest.

Then he saw him, helping settle someone into a seat on one of the jets.

"Wilson!" Clint threw  _everything_  into his tone - all the panic, all the fear, all his own pain and exhaustion. He needed Wilson to hear that tone and just  _know_  that  _everything_  hinged on how the next few minutes played out.

He saw the moment Wilson heard the call – practically watched the tone sink in. And then the doctor was turning, practically leaping down the jet ramp and to Clint's side.

"What happened?"

Wilson helped him ease Phil off his shoulders and onto the ground. Clint sank to his knees next to his handler and hovered as the doctor felt for a pulse.

"Three hits – leg, chest, and…" Clint swallowed as he watched Wilson lean down and put his cheek next to Phil's nose and mouth, "and head."

Wilson paused, eyes settling on the black X on Phil's forehead. His eyes flicked up to meet Clint's and then shifted back down to Phil. He peeled up the makeshift bandage on Phil's head, grimacing at what he saw.

"Jenna! I need you!" Wilson didn't look up as he called, but moments later a red-headed woman was kneeling next to them. "Clear a place on the jet. He's coming with us."

Jenna looked at Wilson, then down at Phil, eyes moving unerringly to the mark on his forehead. Her gaze shifted nervously to Clint and then back to Wilson.

"But…"

Clint stiffened. But  _the fuck_  what?

Wilson's eyes shifted to him quickly.

"Barton, keep pressure on that chest wound." When Clint didn't immediately comply, Wilson's tone hardened. "Barton!"

Clint reached forward mechanically to put pressure on top of the fabric bandage. In the back of his mind he heard Natasha keeping people back – protecting his six and making sure he had the space he needed to get this done. He looked up when Wilson hissed something lowly at the nurse.

"Don't  _lecture_  me on triage protocol. I wrote the damn manual."

"There are people that need help, Doctor. People you  _can_ help."

"He's not dead." Clint snarled out, pitching his voice low and dangerous. He knew that tone struck fear into most – Wilson was one of the exceptions. It had his desired effect. The nurse shrunk back, her eyes going wide.

Clint shifted his eyes to Wilson.

"He's not dead." His tone had lost its fire. He was pleading now – begging Wilson not to give up.

He  _needed_  Wilson not to give up.

The doctor stared at him for a long moment and then nodded once.

"Follow me."

Clint pulled Phil up and prepared to shift him onto his shoulders once again.

"You can't do this!" Jenna scolded in alarm.

"What's going on?" A young agent Clint didn't recognize came towards them from one of the jets. And while Clint didn't recognize the man, he sure as hell recognized the SHIELD issued semi-auto he was carrying.

Wilson hesitated only briefly before standing and turning to face the agent.

"We're moving this man onto the next jet out. I'd appreciate it if you helped me clear a path."

The agent's eyes shifted from Wilson to Phil – hovering on that damn mark – then back to Wilson.

"Nobody with an X gets on a jet." As if to push that point home harder, he tightened his grip on the gun. Clint carefully lowered Phil back to the ground, feeling Natasha come up behind him.

The movement drew the agent's attention and the gun was suddenly brought up and aimed in his direction. Clint slowly rose from his crouch, keeping his knees bent and his stance ready. His eyes tracked the approach of a second armed agent.

"Jenner, I'm the goddamned director of the infirmary. If I say the man is getting on a jet, he is."

Wilson took a step forward.

Both agents chambered a round in their guns. Wilson froze. Clint shifted a step to his left, to where he had a clear angle on the two men without having to go over Phil. The guns shifted their aim back to him.

"Don't move."

Clint shifted another step.

"Listen, kid," he  _had_  to be a recruit, no established agent would point a gun at  _him_ , "I'm putting him on that jet and believe me when I tell you that this is a battle you don't want to fight."

Wilson shifted, raising his hands placatingly. Whether he recognized the rising tension between Clint and the agents or realized they were wasting precious time, he took a step towards the agents.

"Jenner, you and your friend need to stand down, right the fuck now."

Neither of their guns wavered. Clint shifted another step around Phil, Natasha moving with him, ready to back him up.

"Goddamnitall, I need to  _treat_  this man or it won't matter anymore one way or another!" Wilson's voice rose and he held a hand up towards Clint, silently asking him  _not_ to escalate the situation.

Clint just kept his glare on the recruits with the guns. Wilson could be damn sure Clint  _would_  escalate the situation if those to asshats didn't step aside.

Wilson seemed to recognize Clint's stance because his eyes widened and he turned back to Jenner, his tone demanding obedience.

"Jenner, let them on the damn jet."

Jenner shifted and never broke his eye contact with Clint.

"All due respect, sir, but we don't' take orders from  _you_."

Clint took a step towards them and Jenner fired at the dirt in front of his feet. Clint's glare turned to ice and next to him Natasha drew her weapon. A few startled shouts erupted from the growing hoard of onlookers before they fell into an enraptured hush.

A tall figure suddenly pushed his way through the crowd.

* * *

"No," Todd Bryan was ready to start kicking ass and taking names, "you take your orders from  _me._ " They were in the middle of a god damned _attack_  and the people were turning on each other.

Both recruits swallowed thickly and Todd looked around at the scene – which was more like a standoff. His eyes shifted down to Phil and then widened.  _What the hell?_

He resisted the urge to go and feel for a pulse and felt the blood drain from his face.

Phil.

Jesus…Barton was probably on the verge of a breakdown.

Todd snapped his gaze up to the archer, who looked as coiled and ready to strike as a pissed off cobra. He needed to shut down this conflict now – before bodies started dropping.

"Stand down."

"But sir!"

"I gave you an order, recruit!"

Jenner jutted his chin out.

"He has an X. Nobody with an X gets on a jet – that's the rule. If we're gonna start breaking that then how about we take my buddy Alex over there too."

Jenner motioned at a body propped against a tree.

"We can't do that." Wilson interjected quietly.

Dan was right – they couldn't open that floodgate. Todd really tried not to think about the fact that they were ignoring that particular point for Phil.

"If my buddy can't go – your buddy can't go."

Todd saw Barton shift out of the corner of her eye. Saw the focus in his eyes narrow. A step behind him, Romanoff was similarly preparing herself. Todd stepped forward, putting his hand up placatingly to the archer, asking with his eyes for Barton to calm down.

"Jenner and Brennen – you need to stand down. Do you even realize who you're pointing guns at?"

Both recruits frowned in confusion and Todd blew out a breath, keeping one eye on Barton to make sure he stayed put.

"You're aiming at Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff – this is fucking Hawkeye and the Black Widow. You might want to rethink your stance, boys."

Both recruits paled.

"Now, Barton's going to get on that jet with his friend. And trust me when I tell you, you do  _not_  want to be the one that tried to stop him. He will go right through you if he has to, kid."

And Todd knew Barton  _would_. He didn't even have to look at him to know  _no one_  was stopping him from getting Phil to help.

Jenner swallowed and finally lowered the gun. Todd blew out a tension filled breath and turned back to Barton, who was already kneeling next to Phil, pulling him up and onto his shoulders. With Romanoff at his side, Barton headed for the ramp.

Todd started to follow, but the crowd moved with him.

"Why does  _he_  get to go?!"

"He had an X! My brother has an X!"

"If one X goes, all Xs should go!"

"It's not fair!"

Todd turned and looked over the crowd as the voices started to rise in anger. Dan appeared at his shoulder. The both watched the crowd start to press forward.

"This is bad."

Todd nodded and pulled his side arm.

"Get on the damn jet and close the ramp."

He fired twice into the air. Several shouts of surprise rose from the suddenly frozen crowd.

"Back _the fuck_ up!"

Todd swallowed and backed slowly up the ramp. He closed his eyes against the shouts of rage that rose as the ramp rose, locking the crowd out, and hoped to God that he hadn't just helped incite a riot.

* * *

Dan pushed the situation they'd just left behind out of his mind and unceremoniously started pushing people out of the way.

"Clear a space!" He caught Jenna's arm. "Grab two liters of Ringers and start me a pair of IVs, run them both wide open – then grab me some pressure bandages, whatever we've got left."

The redheaded nurse shook her head.

"All we've got left is saline, and –"

Dan waved his hand to stop her.

"Then grab  _that_  and get it started. That bullet in the leg didn't hit the femoral artery. If it had, he'd already be dead, but it  _did_  hit something major. We need to get fluids into his system."

Jenna nodded and started pushing her way through the crowded jet towards the supplies. Dan turned to Barton, who was still standing with Phil draped across his shoulders. For a moment Dan could only stare at them.

What the hell had he just done? Left countless others behind for a man that looked dead already?

Barton shifted, not quite wavering, but not as steady as he had been. It was enough to snap Dan's mind back into action.

"Put him down there. One of you two find an oxygen tank and a non-rebreather mask and get it on him."

Natasha touched Clint's arm and moved away to find the oxygen even as Barton slowly knelt down, easing Phil to the floor with almost exaggerated care. Dan knelt down on the other side of Phil.

"How long has that tourniquet been on?"

Barton swallowed.

"Maybe 10 to 15 minutes." Dan couldn't remember  _ever_  hearing Barton's voice sound that shaken. But Dan didn't have time to worry about Barton right now.

"Ok, then we can leave it on until we get to the Helicarrier. I don't want to take any chances with that unless I have to." He looked up when Jenna settled next to him with the fluids. A moment later Romanoff was kneeling next to Barton, a small tank of oxygen in one hand and a mask in the other.

"Jenna, both anticubes, you know the drill. Romanoff, take each bag as she starts them. Barton, keep the pressure on that chest wound." Dan rattled of the commands quickly and efficiently. "Jenna, as soon as you're done starting those IVs, I need a set of vitals."

Once satisfied that he was being obeyed, Dan started running his hands carefully over Phil's body, making sure there weren't any more wounds or injuries that had been missed.

"Jesus," he breathed with a sigh. "He get sprayed by a machine gun?"

When it became apparent that Barton wasn't going to say anything, Romanoff spoke up quietly, her eyes on her partner's down turned face.

"We got caught off guard."

Dan barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yeah," he nearly drawled, "I figured that. Where the hell were your vests?"

He continued his assessment of Phil, talking really only to keep himself focused – to keep from thinking too much about who he was working on. He glanced at Jenna as she finished one IV, handed the bag off to Romanoff, and then shifted around to Phil's other side.

Barton's head snapped up.

"Who the hell cares about the vests? Fucking Kevlar wouldn't have stopped a round to his leg and head."

Dan's own head snapped up – that kind of tone was like a shrieking alarm when it came to Barton. He took a good look at the archer, whose gaze was all but shooting fire.

"Take a breath and calm down, Barton. It was a  _question_."

Barton dropped his head down again – shaking it slightly and breathing raggedly.

Dan paused for a moment and shot a glance at Romanoff. Her gaze confirmed what Dan was thinking. Barton was a breath away from losing it – Dan had nearly set him off himself without realizing it.

"Barton, look at me."

For a long moment Barton didn't look up – just kept his eyes on Phil's chest and tried to calm his breathing. Finally, he seemed to pull it together and raised his eyes to Dan's.

Dan had to force himself to ignore the emotion swirling through the familiar blue-gray gaze. He couldn't afford to notice it right now – not yet. But he could at least pull Barton back from the edge.

"He's still here. He's still breathing. We can work with that."

He waited while Barton searched his gaze – and then the archer nodded slightly, dropping his gaze once more. Blowing out a breath, Dan grabbed a pressure bandage and started laying it out on the chest wound. The tension filled silence that settled around them was broken only by soft crying from someone back further in the jet.

When the pilot's voice cracked through the silence, nearly everyone in the jet flinched.

" _We'll be touching down in 5 minutes – prepare for landing."_

Dan could practically feel the relief sweep through the jet.

Jenna – having already finished the second IV and handed the bag off to Romanoff – sat back from where she'd been pulling vitals.

"Pulse is 45 and thready, blood pressure is 70 palp. You want me to get a pulse ox?"

Dan shook his head.

"Don't bother. We're already doing everything we can, and we'll be on the ground in a few minutes." He sighed and grumbled to himself, "Besides, not sure how much more bad news I can take." He hoped no one heard the note of desperation that had slid past his defenses and into his tone.

A few excruciating minutes, later Dan felt the jet touch down. A breath later, the ramp was lowering. To Dan's relief, the Helicarrier infirmary staff – and whatever base infirmary staff had already arrived – was waiting on the tarmac.

"Get him to one of those stretchers." Dan watched Todd move to help Barton. They each slid an arm under Phil's shoulders and under a knee. They lifted together and moved. Jenna took the IV bags from Romanoff and followed.

Dan blew out a deep breath and started down the ramp – only to draw up short when a hand caught his arm. He turned, surprised to see Romanoff looking at him seriously.

"Thank you."

Dan watched her eyes slid over to where Barton was easing Phil down onto a stretcher – her eyes stayed there for a long moment before shifting back to Dan.

"For not giving up."

Whether she was talking about giving up on Phil or on Barton wasn't clear. Dan sighed, looking to Barton himself. The kid had a white-knuckled grip on the bars the nurses had raised on either side of Phil's stretcher and was watching their every move with deadly intensity.

Dan turned back to Romanoff, pitching his voice low so none of the people filing off the jet around them would overhear.

"Thank me in 12 hours if he's still alive and we know whether or not it did any damned good."

Then he left her standing on the ramp and jogged to Phil's side.

* * *

Clint kept pace next to the stretcher as they rushed through the halls of the carrier to the infirmary. Dan was shouting out instructions to the staff but Clint wasn't listening – couldn't bring his focus away from one thing.

The rise and fall of Phil's chest.

As long as his chest was rising and falling, he was alive.

Nothing else around him mattered except that – Phil was alive. And he had damn well better stay that way. Clint couldn't even think about the possibility of anything else.

Almost abruptly – or maybe it just seemed abrupt because he had lost track of his surroundings – they pushed through two swinging doors.

"He can't come back here."

The practically shouted statement took several beats to sink into Clint's laser focused consciousness. And before he had a chance to fully process what those words meant or who they were talking about, hands had locked onto him, pulling him back – pulling him away from Phil.

_LIKE HELL._

Unexpected hands grabbing him had  _never_  meant anything good – never once in his entire life. And when those hands pulled him away from the one place he  _had_  to be right now, he reacted instinctively.

He'd snapped his elbow back, hearing a crack as it impacted a nose. More hands latched onto him – three sets. Three men.

He slammed his open palm into a sternum, pushing one man back. Then he snapped his left leg out in a side kick, his boot slamming into a thigh. As that man fell, Clint fisted his now free left hand and swung it in a vicious back hand, sending the man twisting to the floor unconscious.

He distantly heard a familiar yell for somebody to 'stand the fuck down'.

He turned to the third man, who had a firm grip on his right arm. Clint pulled his left leg nearly straight up, hooking it his ankle on the man's shoulder. Then he pushed off with his right foot, twisting in the air and bringing his right leg up, wrapping it around the other side of the man's neck. For a breath Clint was upside down, all but hanging by his legs from the man's neck. Then he torqued his body, jerking the man down ass over head.

Clint landed hard on his back, but rolled up instantly, meeting the first man – now recovered from his nearly-cracked sternum – with a low left uppercut right into his groin. As the man doubled, Clint rose, driving his knee into the man's face.

Even as the man crumpled bonelessly to the ground, Clint felt a new presence behind him.

"Barton!"

Before that same familiar voice had a chance to register, another hand landed on his shoulder. Clint reached across his body, latched onto the hand and twisted as he turned. He brought the new attacker's hand up and behind his back, slammed the man face first into the wall, and held him there.

"Barton,  _Jesus!_ " The assailant wheezed out before holding up his free hand, palm out. "Stand down – stay the fuck back."

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw two men freeze and then back up.

"Barton –  _look_ at me. It's  _me_  – Wilson."

Clint blinked, and the world suddenly focused – the defensive adrenaline rush faded.

Wilson?

Clint relaxed the pressure he was putting on the doctor's arm. Before he had a chance to even breath, Wilson moved, turning on his heel, catching his palm against Clint's collar bone and bringing him around hard into the wall – pinning him there with his forearm.

Clint's eyes fell on Phil, laying on the stretcher just a few feet away. He couldn't pull his eyes away.

Natasha stepped forward – away from a few unconscious bodies of her own, but Wilson waved her off.

"Barton – look at me."

Clint blinked – tearing his gaze away from Phil and putting it on Wilson's.

"Pull it  _the fuck_  together, kid."

Clint frowned. How  _the hell_  was he supposed to do that?

Wilson sighed and spoke over his shoulder to the gaping nurses.

"What the hell are you waiting for? Get him back there and get to work!"

Immediately they started wheeling Phil away. Clint bucked against Wilson's restraining hold. He almost got free – then his back was cracking against the wall again.

"Damnitall, Barton! If I'm going to help him, I have to get in there and you need to let me!"

Clint pushed against the restraining arm on his chest again.

"Barton! You  _can't_  be back there! You'd be in the way! Do you want that? Do you want to get in the way of me saving his life?"

Clint went still. Of course he didn't. But he couldn't shake the feeling that if he didn't keep Phil in his sights, the man would slip away and Clint would never see him again.

Clint had never felt a fear like that before.

He met Wilson's eyes – unable to keep the walls he usually kept so firmly in place from crumbling. He knew the doctor would read every emotion, every fear, he was feeling right now in his eyes – and Clint couldn't bring himself to try and hide it.

Wilson's gaze softened right along with his voice.

"Let me do my job, Barton."

Clint swallowed thickly and nodded. Wilson nodded back and then released him. Then he was gone – jogging down the hall after Phil.

Clint's legs went weak and he just slid down the wall right there, landing hard on his butt. All he could do was stare after Wilson – at the door he and Phil had disappeared behind.

The only thought he could process was that  _that_  – unconscious and bleeding on a stretcher – might have been the last time he ever saw Phil.

* * *

Todd offered one of the injured agents a hand up, handing him off to the nurses. He wished he knew what the hell they'd been thinking – putting hands on  _Clint Barton_  like that without warning. Anybody that had ever even heard of the man should have known better.

Now there were seven more men on the injured list – four were Barton's handiwork, three Romanoff's. At least the three Romanoff had stopped from joining the battle against Clint were all still mobile.

Clint had put his four down  _hard._  The man who'd started all of it was still unconscious with a broken nose – or face. It was hard to tell through all the blood. The other three, none of them had even stirred yet.

When Todd had come in from squaring away a few of his agents that were on the jet to find a fairly one-sided brawl taking place, he'd just _known_  Barton and Romanoff would be in the middle of it. Sure enough, Todd had waded through the mass of gaping onlookers in time to see Barton ruin the last man's chance at having kids for a while.

Then  _Dan_  had waded into the mess. The man was damn lucky Barton hadn't dislocated his shoulder right then and there. Now Dan was gone and Barton was sitting on the floor looking more pathetic than a kicked puppy.

Todd watched Romanoff move to her partner's side, crouching down and saying something Todd couldn't hear. He frowned as he watched her say something else and then reach for Barton's shoulder, shaking it slightly.

_Ah shit._

Todd made his way over, crouching on Barton's opposite side.

"He's not responding." Romanoff's tone was worried – but beneath that Todd could hear an echo of her own fear, her own shaken emotions.

Todd took a moment to look Barton over.

The kid's hands were shaking – full-on trembling like he was in the arctic. His eyes were locked on the door Dan and Phil were behind and stone-cold blankness of his expression was anything to go by, the kid was barely holding it together.

"Barton?"

He'd try gentle first. It got him about what he'd expected – a whole lot of nothing. Barton had never been one to respond to gentle from anyone but Phil – and even then only under extreme circumstances. Todd had figured this might qualify.

Time to change tactics.

He reached out and wrapped his hand around Barton's bicep and jerked him roughly to his feet. Once he had Barton upright, he gave him a firm shake. Something in Barton's eyes cleared so Todd spoke while he had his attention.

"You need to pull it together, kid. This isn't over – not by a long shot."

Barton blinked – his gaze focusing on Todd's.

Todd almost took a step back. The amount of  _pain_ , the level of  _fear_  Barton was carrying right now…it was almost enough to rip  _Todd's_ emotions to shreds. Drawing in a shuddering breath, he shifted his hand from Barton's bicep to the back of his neck – squeezing gently.

"I know, kid."  _I know you're scared._  "But Phil has never –  _never_  – in all the times you've scared the shit out of us, given up on you. So don't you dare give up on him, got it? Trust him to fight as hard to get back to you as you always have to get back to him."

Because Todd believed with everything he had that if there was one thing Phil Coulson would fight for – it would be for Clint Barton. This kid was Phil's world – whether Barton knew and accepted that or not.

"He won't let you down, okay?"

Barton swallowed thickly and gave him a shaky nod. Todd nodded back and looked to Romanoff. The poor girl looked lost – he could see how much she wanted to help Barton – but she had no idea how. It was hurting her to see Barton like this almost as much as she had to be hurting over Phil.

Barton wasn't the only one Phil meant something to.

Todd met her eyes.

"Why don't you get him out of here?" He looked Clint up and down – took in the blood-soaked clothes, the morbid smears on his face and in his hair. The fact that his hands were literally red. "Get him and yourself cleaned up. I'll find you if anything changes."

She nodded silently and took Clint's hand in hers, leading the suddenly scarily compliant archer away. Todd waited until they were out of sight before turning to lean against the wall – his own knees feeling weak.

He blew out a shuddering breath and looked around – took in all the injured waiting to be treated, the frenzied staff running around with blood smears on their clothes and exhaustion in their eyes.

 _What the hell happened?_  They were  _SHIELD_. They were supposed to fight battles around the world, not where they lived – but this one – this battle was fought at their goddamned home and no one had escaped unscathed.

Todd shook his head in morbid shock.

_How the hell had this happened?_

* * *

Clint stood with his right hand braced against the back wall of the shower, leaning forward slightly with his head bent forward and letting the cool spray beat down on the back of his neck.

He blinked slowly, watching the water swirl into the drain of the shower - only it wasn't just water.

It was blood.

Phil's blood.

It had stained the tile floor pink and slid in dark swirls slowly down the drain. Clint couldn't tear his eyes away – couldn't force himself to bring his focus away from the morbidly mesmerizing sight. He absently wondered where it was all coming from – how he still hadn't managed to wash it all away.

"Clint?"

He flinched, the rest of the world shifting back into focus.

"I found you clothes." Natasha went on – rustling with something on the other side of the curtain Clint was currently behind. "It's SHIELD-issued combat fatigues straight from the supply room, but at least nobody's worn them before, right?"

Clint blew out a low breath and straightened, shifting off the handle that controlled the water. He reached for the curtain, pushing it aside and reaching to the towel rack. Almost mechanically, he pulled a towel free and started to dry himself off.

"Jesus, Clint!"

Natasha finished belting her new black and gray fatigue pants and moved to his side even as he wrapped his towel around his waist.

"Why didn't you say something?"

_Huh?_

Clint lowered his eyes to where Natasha's warm hands were suddenly touching his ribs – framing a startlingly deep crease from what had to have been a bullet.

_Huh._

"Did you not feel this?"

Clint could only shake his head. Even now, looking right at it, all he felt was numb.

_Well son of a bitch._

He grimaced slightly, glaring at the small, but  _deep_  gouge the mystery bullet had taken out of his side.

Her hands suddenly shifted, touching his arms and then neck.

"You're freezing – ever heard of hot water?"

Clint frowned in confusion. He did feel a little cold now that she mentioned it. She reached for another towel and threw it around his shoulders. Then Natasha sighed, pulling him by the elbow over to the long, multi-sink counter. He didn't notice the pile of neatly-folded clothes until Natasha was pulling a pair of boxers off the top of the pile and shoving them at his chest.

"Put those on."

Clint didn't even feel like coming up with a totally inappropriate innuendo. God, it had been a  _shitty_  day. He slid the boxers over his hips and tossed his towel aside.

"On the counter, let me get a look at that."

She urged him with a light push towards the counter and he slid onto it, sitting with his hands braced on either side of him, gripping the edge. She leaned over and inspected the wound with her eyes, prodding the edge gently with her fingers.

Clint watched her with vague interest for a moment before he looked away – fixing his gaze on the door.

"God, Clint…nice rib you've got there." She raised her gaze to look at him. "Only  _you_  could take a crease deep enough to see bone and  _not_ notice."

Clint wasn't really listening anymore. Phil was somewhere on the other side of that door – fighting for his life. Clint wasn't about to sweat a simple crease – not when his best friend was down, might not be getting back up.

Not when so many others were down for good.

* * *

Natasha sighed when Clint didn't respond – didn't even seem to be paying attention. She stared at him for a long moment – watching him stare at some spot on the door, but not really see it.

"You need stitches." She announced – hoping to get at least a token refusal to seek real medical help. He just kept staring off into space – a slow furrow forming in his brow. She shook her head, at a loss. She'd never seen him like this – didn't know what she was supposed to say or do.

So she'd do the only thing she could right now. Treat him.

She reached around him for the first-aid kit she'd brought back on her quest for clean, blood-free clothing. Even before she'd known about his wound, they had other, more minor, injuries that needed to be looked after.

She moved to one of the sinks and washed her hands thoroughly. Then she went to the towel rack, reached to the top, and pulled down a washcloth. A few moments later she had it wet and soapy. When she stood in front of him again, ready to start cleaning the wound, she hesitated.

Clint hadn't moved – hadn't even shifted his gaze. Maybe the pain would bring him around.

She brought the rag to the wound and started cleaning it.

A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he showed no other reaction. Natasha clenched her jaw and kept cleaning. Once she was satisfied, she tossed the rag in the trash and pulled a suture kit from the first aid supplies.

She thought for sure the first stitch would get some sort of reaction. Instead, he just kept his almost-vacant gaze on the door. He was starting to scare her. Clint being quiet wasn't abnormal – but  _this_  kind of quiet, this was bad. It's like he wasn't even in the room with her.

"Clint, I think –"

He spoke suddenly, interrupting her as if she hadn't even been talking. She couldn't bring herself to care because he hadn't said  _anything_ since he'd answered Wilson's question about the vests on the jet.

"It's not a coincidence."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise and she briefly raised her gaze from her suture job to look at him. He was still staring at the door – but there was at least  _something_  of life in his eyes.

"What's not a coincidence?"

Clint finally seemed to snap out of whatever daze he'd been in. He turned his head and met her eyes.

"This – the attack. It's not a coincidence."

Natasha held his gaze for a moment before looking back at her stitches and continuing to sew his side together.

"What do you mean?"

"Williams."

Her hands froze mid stitch. She slowly brought her eyes up to his. He was deadly serious – had drawn some sort of connection in his mind. And when Clint's mind drew a connection, it was usually there. He had a unique way of seeing the big picture that most others couldn't.

"You think he's behind this." She wasn't asking – his expression made it obvious enough.

"Think about it." He suddenly had more animation than he had since before Phil had gone down. "They had to have had a gate code to even get on the  _property_. Either that or someone let them in. And this happens  _right_  when we're closing in on Williams? When Phil's been asking questions and we've nailed down the guy that put a hit on the bastard's daughter? Williams figured out we were closing in and decided to cut his losses."

"By attacking SHIELD – the very entity he works for?"

Natasha wasn't sure she bought that – it was such a huge escalation. And for Williams to have declared  _war_  on SHIELD…she wasn't sure she could make that leap. Clint pulled her hands away from the half completed stitches, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"I killed the man's  _daughter_  – his  _only_  child – and I've looked the bastard in the face for the last seven years and  _gotten away with it_. He's tried to kill me  _several_  times and he's tried to kill you – but so far, all he's done is fail. He wants me to burn and  _this_ ," he motioned vaguely around, "is him deciding to just burn the house down around me."

Natasha stared at him, hearing the dark passion in his tone. God, what if he was right? He must have mistook her silence for disbelief because he shrugged helplessly.

"Tell me something else makes sense." He was practically begging her.

But she couldn't think of anything else – of  _anyone_  else that would be driven enough to launch an attack on SHIELD.

"Tell me  _anything_  else makes sense." There was sudden pain in his voice – unimaginable pain that nearly had her reaching out to him. "Because if I'm right – if this was Williams – then all of this," his expression filled with anger, anger that wasn't directed anywhere but at himself, "is because of  _me._ "

She heard what he hadn't said. That  _Phil_  might be dying because of him.

No.

She shook her head sharply.

"No." She insisted fiercely. "This is on Williams. And you are going to direct that anger where it belongs, understood?"

He stared at her and she stared right back, her own expression unyielding and full of fire. Clint would  _not_  carry this on his shoulders. She wouldn't let him.

"If this was him,  _he_  chose this.  _He_  chose this path,  _not_  you. He chose to make this so much bigger than just you. He made this about all of us. And the son of a bitch is going to learn  _very_  soon that he should have just killed you."

Clint's eyebrow rose in surprise.

"Because  _now_ , you're going to kill him."

And just like that – there was fire in his eyes again.

* * *

End of Chapter Five

Whew...Williams is in TROUBLE. Nat was right. He should have made sure Clint was dead, cuz now...

 **Kylen** deserves credit for the idea to have a triage situation where Phil ended up getting triaged off and Dan ultimately ignoring triage protocol in some way. She gave me those ideas and I filled in the spaces around them and wrote them in cuz they were wicked good ideas :)

Comments are like chocolate to me - always necessary and always awesome :D

Here's your preview!

* * *

_"You find him, Barton. Take him into custody and then you will **wait** for my orders, understood?"_

_Clint met the Director's gaze darkly._

_"You send me after him – and I'm bringing back a body."_


	6. Why Don't We Break The Rules Already

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thank you to Kylen for general awesomeness and beta-ing :) She is Dan's voice as usual, and she pretty much re-vamped the scene with Dan and Natasha in this chapter and made it awesome :)
> 
> This story is dedicated to Kylen
> 
> On to Chapter Six...

  
_The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our separate ways, I to die, and you to live. Which of these two is better only God knows._   
_**Socrates** _   


* * *

Clint shifted his hands carefully along Natasha's rib cage, feeling for anything out of place. He caught a slight wince when his fingers pressed against a spot with a particularly dark bruise just under the hem of her black sports bra, but she shook her head – nothing broken.

A few more moments and his exam was finished, but he didn't pull his hands away – kept them resting lightly against her warm skin, the thumb of his left hand ghosting across a nasty, blackening bruise.

She shifted in her spot on the counter.

"Clint?"

He shook his head. How many times had he done this for her, or her for him? How many times had Phil all but physically restrained him to get him to slow down long enough for the man to check his ribs for breaks on a mission?

It was always him – or Natasha. They were the ones in the line of fire, the ones that took the hits. And as much as the protective part of his being hated that Natasha was in that kind of danger, it was the job. He knew that. He accepted it.

But it wasn't supposed to be Phil. It wasn't supposed to be  _Phil_  hanging by a thread right now.

A hand was suddenly resting against the back of his jaw.

"He's going to be okay."

Clint raised his eyes, meeting Natasha's sharp, green gaze. The fingers of her other hand combed through the short hair on his temple.

"He  _will_."

God  _damn_  she could read him like an open book these days. He forced a shaky nod.

Natasha quirked her lips sadly and pulled him forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a rare show of affection. Clint slid his hands across her back, drawing in the strength she was offering him. He turned his face into the side of her neck, drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out slowly.

In a few minutes they'd have to leave this bathroom they'd taken over. They'd have to wade back into the chaos going on around them. They'd have to fight again. But for right now – in this moment – he could just be here. He could keep his arms wrapped around Natasha and believe that everything was going to be okay.  _Phil_  was going to be okay.

He hadn't realized how much he'd needed to just  _stop_  and take a moment to just breathe until Natasha offered it to him. He tightened his arms slightly, sliding one hand up her back to rest between her shoulder blades.

"Thank you."

He followed the whispered works with a light kiss to her neck, then he pulled back. She gave him a warm smile – one he knew no one else in the world ever got to see.

"Ready?"

Clint drew in a deep breath to fortify himself and then nodded with more confidence than he'd felt since this whole mess started.

He watched Natasha start to grimace her way into a black t-shirt and reached to the counter for his own.

* * *

Clint barely managed to step out of the way of a tech sprinting down the hallway with a data pad in his hand. He glanced back at Natasha who sighed and as she too side-stepped to avoid getting run over.

"It's a goddamned madhouse out here." Clint blew out an annoyed breath.

"We need to find Fury." Natasha rolled her eyes as someone rushing by knocked shoulders with her from behind.

"Any idea which way control is?" Clint looked up and down the hallway. Neither of them had been on the carrier before. And with everybody running around like maniacs it was hard to get a read on their location.

Natasha shrugged.

"I had to threaten someone to find out where to get us clothes."

"I think I can help with that."

They both turned, arching an eyebrow in near synchronization as none other than Maria Hill strode up to them. She looked tired and stressed, but no worse for wear.

"Hill." Natasha nodded in greeting.

"Fury wants to see both of you in his office."

Clint motioned with his hand for her to lead the way. A few minutes later, the main bridge of the carrier came into sight. There was a controlled hum of chaos throughout the bridge as the various techs coordinated the rescue efforts still underway.

"This way."

Hill led them to a glass door – Clint could see Fury standing behind a desk, looking out a window.

Hill led the way inside, closing the door after them.

"Engage privacy protocol."

No sooner had the words left Hill's mouth than all the glass in the room darkened – tinting automatically until it was black. Clint arched his eyebrows appreciatively.

Fury turned to them then, his expression set in stone.

"What we are about to discuss, does not go beyond the people in this room."

Clint glanced at Natasha. Looked like they were about to find out what was going on.

Fury moved towards his desk, typing in a quick code on his keyboard. A panel in the wall behind his desk suddenly dropped back and slid to the side, revealing a safe. As he moved to the safe and bent down for a retinal scan, he spoke.

"One month ago, Phil Coulson came to me with information regarding an off-books investigation."

The safe unlocked and he pulled the door open, extracting a single file. Clint leaned, trying to get a glimpse inside, but couldn't see anything but the leather of Fury's jacket. The Director closed the safe and turned back to them.

"An investigation regarding a World Security Council member named Matthew Williams."

Hill's eyes widened in shock and Natasha's expression remained perfectly blank. Clint clenched his jaw tightly in annoyance. Phil had read Fury in on the Williams situation without telling him.

So much for being in this together.

Fury eyed him critically – seeming to read his mind.

"He was trying to protect you, Barton. Reading me in was the right call. If it was true, if Williams was targeting you – I needed to know so that I could try and prevent a repeat of Budapest. And so that we could start building a case."

He tapped the file that he'd set on the desk.

"Excuse me, sir…" Hill stepped forward – shock still written across her expression. "You were investigating a  _Council_ member? Does the rest of the Council know about this?"

"No, Agent Hill. And until I see it fit, it will remain that way." He gave her a hard look. "Understood?"

Hill swallowed and gave him a wide eyed nod.

"If you've been building a case," Clint fought the urge to snatch the file from under Fury's hand, "why haven't we moved on Williams?"

Fury sighed, looking suddenly exhausted.

"He's a  _Council_  member, Barton. We can't just  _move_  on him – not until we have damn good evidence. Trying with anything less is a quick way to a short career."

Clint looked down briefly, his jaw clenching again. Then he raised his hard gaze to Fury.

"He just brought down the New York base – got enough evidence yet?"

Hill drew in a sharp breath.

"You think  _this_  was Williams?"

Clint kept his eyes locked on Fury. The Director stared right back – and didn't disagree.

Hill shook her head sharply.

"You have  _no_ proof of that! And to make such an accusation is practically treason!"

Natasha shifted next to Clint, crossing her arms over her chest.

"She's right. All we have is a gut feeling. We can't take that to the Council."

Clint narrowed his eyes when Fury reached for his jacket pocket.

"We have more than that." He pulled out three rectangles of thick paper that looked a hell of a lot like playing cards. "We pulled these off of one of the leaders of the attack teams." He tossed the cards down on the desk one by one.

The first was a King of Spades but in place of the King was a black and white photo of Phil.

The second was a Queen of the same suit – this one had Natasha's photo in its center.

Clint already knew what the last one would be before the Ace of Spades ever hit the desk and he saw his own face staring back at him.

"Son of a bitch." Hill breathed as she drifted closer, taking in the cards with wide eyes.

Clint suddenly felt sick. After all the conjecture – all the hunches – to see the two most important people in the world to him on hit cards was nearly too much to handle. Williams had decided just killing him wasn't enough – he wanted to kill the only two people in the world that Clint couldn't live without. He reached for the back of one of the chairs facing Fury's desk, bracing his hands on it and dropping his head down. He felt a hand on his back even as Natasha spoke what they were all thinking.

"This was a hit."

Clint closed his eyes to stave off the wave of dizziness that swept over him. Whether it was the sudden jump in stress, or that Phil wasn't standing here next to him, or that he hadn't slept more than five hours in the last 48 – it was suddenly taking every shred of control he had to just keep it together.

"An organized one." Fury confirmed. "We have a few of the hostiles in custody – still alive. I expect interrogation to reveal that their primary directive was to find you three and kill you – by any means necessary."

"Any means – meaning taking down the entire base?" Hill frowned doubtfully. "Who would want you three dead  _that_  badly?"

Clint huffed a morbid laugh – it gave him the strength he needed to force himself to raise his head again.

"Are you kidding? We're covert assassins – the list of people that want us dead is a mile long – but there's only one person on it that could get those mercs past the gates."

He reached forward and slid the King of Spades off the desk, staring down at Phil's picture.

"This is Williams – it has to be."

Hill shook her head.

"You have nothing but circumstantial evidence."

Clint tossed the card back down, turning his glare on her.

"What exactly do you want? Williams to waltz through the front door carrying an M-16?"

"I just think that you need more before you can even think of taking this to the Council." She held his gaze impressively for several moments before she swallowed nervously and looked away. She looked to Fury instead. "You said Coulson started looking into Williams after Budapest? Why then?"

"The email." Natasha tossed the three cards down from where she'd been inspecting them. "Moreno got an anonymous tip that we were coming. Phil traced it."

Fury flipped open the file and handed a sheet of paper to Hill.

"It took some doing, but he traced it back to Williams."

They all three watched as she scanned the trace results.

"This proves that he tipped Moreno in Budapest. Why didn't you bring this to the Council?"

"Because at best, all that gets us is a deportation order, maybe his name on a threat list." Fury sighed. "Then he'd still be out there, and Barton – and now apparently, Romanoff and Coulson – would still be in danger."

Hill rubbed her forehead roughly and blew out a breath.

"If you want the Council to issue a kill order," she glanced at each of the individually, seeming to realize that's what they _all_  wanted, "you need to tie him directly to  _this_  – to the attack."

"Which is why, Agent Hill, you're going to find him." Fury turned his gaze to Clint and Natasha, "And you two are going to go pay him a visit."

"Won't he be at his office in Washington?" Hill asked. "You alerted the Council that you were calling an emergency session, didn't you?"

Fury nodded.

"I did – but Williams won't be tuning in."

Clint closed his eyes as the pieces Fury had already put together clicked into place in his head.

"How do you know?" Hill demanded.

"Because if he did this," Clint met Fury's gaze again, "he declared war on SHIELD. He's going to run."

Fury nodded.

"When Williams is not on that monitor when the Council comes online five minutes from now, we will consider that a confirmation of our suspicions." He looked to Hill. "I want a location on Williams before we ever get to that point."

She nodded slowly, but didn't move from her spot.

"Sir…with respect – if you're wrong…" she shook her head. "Sending them after him is an act of treason. It's an unprovoked attack."

Clint's eyebrows hit his hair line.

"Unprovoked? You're  _kidding_ , right? Where you not listening when we just talked about Budapest? Where he tipped off a crime lord and tried to get us killed?"

"Yeah," Hill shot him a dark look, "why is that again?"

Clint drew back sharply at the flippant reminder that this was all because of something  _he_ had done. But he knew Hill didn't know about Brianna Williams – knew she was just fishing for answers. So he reached out to stop Natasha from advancing in his defense.

"That is information above your pay grade, Agent Hill." Fury's tone was dark, warning her off. "Satisfy your curiosity another day. You have your orders."

She had the good grace to look repentant – nodding quickly and moving towards the door. Once it closed behind her, Fury turned his eye on them.

"You find him, Barton. Take him into custody and then you will  _wait_  for my orders, understood?"

Clint met the Director's gaze darkly.

"You send me after him – and I'm bringing back a body."

There was no ifs, ands, or buts about that – Williams was a dead man walking.

Fury stepped around his desk and up into Clint's space. For a moment they stood nose to nose.

"You will  _wait_  for my orders because if you don't, I will  _not_  protect you from the repercussions." He held Clint's gaze calmly for a moment before continuing. "If he did this, I will get you the kill order – of that you have my word. But until then, you _will_  wait."

Clint stared at him. How was the man  _always_  so fucking calm? Clint suddenly hated him for it.

He shoved Fury hard in the chest.

"How the  _hell_  are you so calm? This is  _Phil_! He could be dying right now and you're about to go play patty cake with the Council? You should be fighting me for the right to put the bullet in Williams' head yourself."

"You think I don't want to end the bastard myself? I  _do_!" Fury stepped back into his space and glared down at him. "But this is about more than me. It's about more than  _Phil_. Williams made this about more than his vendetta against  _you_. He came after my base,  _my people._  And if you kill him without clearance from the Council then it was all for nothing because he  _will WIN._ " His tone suddenly lowered. "If you execute an unauthorized kill on a member of the Council, they  _will_ issue a kill order on you and then Williams will get what he wanted all along."

As much as Clint hated it – he knew Fury was right.

"You have to play it by the books, kid, every step. Don't give them an excuse to put this off on  _you_."

Clint swallowed and nodded.

Fury nodded once back and then looked at his watch.

"It's time for the call in."

He stepped around Clint and headed for the door. Clint and Natasha shared a long look before following after him.

"Hill! Do you have it?"

Hill came jogging up to them as they made their way to the Council Chambers. She held out a data pad.

"Southern California."

"He's gonna jump the border." Clint frowned, pulling the data pad from her hand. "We need to move. If he makes it to Mexico he can go to ground and we might never find him."

Fury nodded.

"Go. Report directly to  _me_ , not through the regular channels." Then Fury was stepping through the door to the Council room, closing it behind him.

Hill turned to them.

"You can take one of the new jets. Gear up and I'll meet you in the hangar in twenty minutes."

Clint nodded.

"Point us towards the armory."

* * *

Fury waited as the screens around him flickered to life – and felt firm resolve settle into place when only one remained black.

" _Director Fury, what's the status of the situation?"_ A woman asked in concern.

Fury lifted his chin. What was the status of the situation? A chaotic hell – that's what.

"A third of my staff is either injured or dead. However the evacuation procedures are coming to a close and my men on the ground report that the last of the hostiles have been taken into custody."

" _Director, what happened?"_

Fury looked from one face to another and ignored the question.

"Council members – does anyone know why Councilman Williams is not online?"

Various levels of shock showed in their expressions as they realized that – indeed – one of their members was missing. Fury sighed. Time to lay it all on the table. If he was going to come through for Barton, he needed to start laying the foundation.

"The time has come for me to bring you up to speed on an off-books investigation that has just become official."

* * *

Todd stormed through the halls – scanning the faces around him as he moved. He finally spotted them as they stepped out of the armory – both with terrifyingly familiar looks in their eyes.

"Barton! Romanoff!"

They both looked to him in time for him to latch onto each of their elbows and pull them through the nearest doorway. He flipped on the light and blinked around at the cleaning closet. With a roll of his eyes he turned on the two assassins.

"Somebody better tell me what the  _hell_  is going on."

They both blinked blankly at him.

_Oh, that was IT._

"Fury calls you in for a secret meeting and now you two are coming out of the armory looking like you look when you're about to go  _kill_  people. So it seems you two know something I don't." He took a menacing step forward and wasn't surprised when neither of them looked particularly affected. "Somebody better lay it out for me from the beginning, or I'm gonna get  _really_ pissed."

He watched them share a long look, and then Barton sighed – looking suddenly like the entire world was resting on his shoulders.

"Phil wanted to tell you weeks ago –but I wouldn't let him. I didn't want anyone else getting pulled into the line of fire."

The look of guilt that swept over the kid's gaze in the next moment was nearly enough to send Todd into a flurry of reassurances.

"But we're past that now." Barton's gaze shifted towards he door – and the masses of displaced SHIELD personnel on the other side of it – and then hardened. "It started a little over seven years ago – when I took a contract on a girl named Brianna Williams…"

Todd listened quietly as Barton told him about the hit and then about the truth behind Budapest and finally, the tie to Matthew Williams. He closed his eyes and put a fist to his mouth to stave off a wave of nausea when Barton told him about the playing cards – about how this whole attack had been an attempt to take out Barton and those closest to him.

"And now you're going after him." It wasn't a question. If what Barton said was true, Williams was a dead already – he just didn't know it yet.

Barton just nodded.

Todd squeezed the bridge of his nose. He wanted – with every fiber of his being – to get on that jet with Barton and Romanoff. To watch their backs and help them end this once and for all.

But with Phil down and Fury tied up with the Council – somebody needed to start getting the chaos back under control. Todd blew out a breath. None of that would matter if Barton needed him, though.

"I'd be with you in a second, kid. All you have to do is ask."

Barton looked so grateful in that moment and his gaze warmed to a level Todd hadn't had directed at him since the rooftop after Uzbekistan.

"I know. But you're needed here." He looked at Romanoff. "We can handle it."

Todd nodded.

"Just come back in one piece, okay?"

An  _almost_ normal version of Barton's familiar cocky smirk spread across the kid's lips and then he reached and clapped Todd on the shoulder before reaching for the door. The three of them stepped into the hallway.

"Hangar?" Romanoff looked to Todd in question.

"This way." He nodded to their left. They started that direction only to stop when Barton didn't follow.

"Clint?" Romanoff stepped back towards him.

"I have to see him." Barton seemed to communicate something to her with his eyes because she nodded without questioning further and turned back to Todd.

"Infirmary?"

* * *

"We just got him stable enough to go into surgery. You've got five minutes." Wilson held open the curtain for him and Clint stepped through without any further prompting. He blew out a shuddering breath and stepped closer to Phil's side, reaching for his hand. He wrapped it in his own and braced his elbows on the metal sidebars on the bed.

Clint didn't let his eyes wander – didn't want to see the damage again – kept them focused instead on Phil's face.

"I promised you…" he had to pause to clear his suddenly tight throat, "after Uzbekistan, that I would always fight. And I have – I've  _fought_  with everything I have every day since then and now it's time for you to return the favor." He tightened his hold on Phil's hand, staring hard at his face and  _willing_  the man to hear him. "You have to  _fight_ , Phil." He ignored the way his voice cracked and kept going. "You fight and I'll fight too, okay?"

He suddenly wished – more than anything – just to hear the man's voice. Fighting off the hitch in his breath, Clint lowered his head and forced himself to retain control. He shook his head and sniffed.

"You can't check out on me, okay? I need you  _here_  with me. So kick this in the ass. Be here waiting when I get back, ready to give me one of your famous talks that make everything okay again." Clint stared at Phil's lax features. "Because right now I'm really afraid that  _nothing_  will be okay again."

Admitting that fear out loud – even if only to an unconscious man – ignited something in him. Williams had done this. He'd taken Phil from him. He'd never wanted to kill someone more than he did right now.

"I'm gonna kill the son of a bitch, Phil. He's not walking away from this. I swear to you and whatever God is listening that I will end him."

* * *

Natasha stared at the curtain, hearing the soft rumble of Clint's voice as he spoke, but unable to decipher what he was saying. She felt Wilson come to stand next to her and glanced briefly at him before turning her gaze back to the curtain.

"I've never seen him like this."

Next to her, Wilson scoffed quietly.

"Are you kidding me?" She looked over, and saw Wilson's eyes wide with disbelief. "You've been here  _how_  long now, and you're going to stand there and tell me you don't realize what those two mean to each other."

The last wasn't a statement, and it irritated Natasha to no end. She stiffened.

"I know better than anyone what they mean to each other." And she  _did_. She saw it in Clint's eyes when he talked about Croatia, when he talked about that dirty alley in Vienna when he was 18. She saw it every time Clint and Phil fought and neither of them was quite  _right_  until they managed to work things out.

Wilson watched for a moment, then nodded.

"Fair enough. But if you know that, then you know damned well if Phil dies, he's going to want to follow." Wilson locked eyes with her. "How much has he told about what happened in Croatia?"

Natasha sighed.

"Enough to know that Phil was –" She stopped and corrected herself, " _is_  the only reason he's who he is now." She felt her gaze harden. "But Phil isn't the only thing he has anymore."

"No, he's not. But Phil's the first one who broke through that shell." Wilson's eyes drifted back to the curtain, and Natasha could sense him losing himself in a memory. "Barton would do  _anything_  to protect Phil. Hell, he  _has_. He stepped in front of a bullet because he couldn't envision his life without Phil, and to hell with the consequences. Phil managed to get Barton's head on straight after that, but …" Wilson sighed. "I have no idea where Barton's head is at right now. Barton's never been in this position with  _Phil_. I need you to keep an eye on him, make sure he keeps perspective."

Natasha scoffed.

"Phil is lying in there, and there's a very  _real_  possibility that this is the last time Clint gets to see him. If he decides to lose perspective, do you realize how impossible it'll be to make him get it back?"

Wilson turned and looked at her for a long moment, pinning her with an intense gaze. When he finally spoke, the words were soft – and surprising.

"You said it yourself, Romanoff. Phil's not the only person he has anymore. If anyone other than Phil can get into his head, it's gonna be you. He  _needs_  you fill that void right now."

Natasha frowned and Wilson's expression softened.

"If there is  _anyone_  that can keep him on the right side of all of this, it'll be you, Romanoff."

She blew out a breath and nodded slowly, turning to Clint as he slid out of the curtain.

He was on shaky ground – she could see it in his eyes – but it would have to wait.

"Give me a minute." She squeezed his arm slightly and slid in to see Phil herself – and to say goodbye…just in case.

* * *

Dan watched Barton for a moment as the young man braced his hands on the wall and glared down at the floor.

"Barton."

The archer didn't raise his head. In fact, the only reason Dan knew he'd heard him was a slight stiffening of the kid's shoulders. Dan sighed.

"Barton, look at me. Please." After a long moment, Barton finally raised his head. The sheer pain on his face – hell, radiating off of him – was more than Dan could take.

"Listen to me. I'm going in there, and I'm going to do everything I can. You  _know_  that." Barton nodded, but Dan doubted he'd done much to reassure him. Hell, he couldn't reassure himself right now. All of this depended on variables Dan wouldn't know until he got into surgery and seen just how much damage those three bullets had done.

That was only part of the issue, though. Dan saw Clint's gaze drift back to the floor, and decided to take a chance. He reached out as he'd seen Phil do many times before, and grabbed the kid's chin, tilting it up so Barton  _had_  to look at him. The startled look on the archer's face made Dan pull his hand away quickly, and raise both hands quickly in surrender.

When Barton didn't lash out with a punch, Dan knew he had his attention.

"You two are leaving, going to take care of this mess." It wasn't really a question, and Dan felt a brief moment of triumph when he got a raised eyebrow from the archer – his first really normal reaction since all this had begun.

Dan plowed on. He needed to know if there was a chance in hell of keeping Barton's head in the game.

"Whatever you feel, Barton, whatever your emotions are, remember what Phil expects of you, okay?" Dan sighed. "He believes in what you can be – no, what you  _are_. Don't do anything you can't take back."

Dan sized up Barton's posture.

"After Croatia...Phil told me what was going through your head. About why you'd done what you'd done." Dan took a deep breath, then spoke. "You're not that 18-year-old kid anymore, Barton. Don't let that mind of yours tell you otherwise, and don't let that part of you make the decisions out there. You understand?"

Something in Barton's expression shifted, giving way to the all-consuming pain he was still battling. Anyone else, Dan would have reached out again, put a hand on a shoulder, a pat on the back – hell, a hug if it was a woman. But he couldn't do that with Barton – not if he still wanted to be headed into surgery in a few minutes.

So, instead, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a knife. Dan had wiped it clean when he'd taken it off Phil, and he knew Barton would recognize it as the one the older agent had given him almost two years ago.

"We found this on Phil. I think he'd want you to have it back."

He didn't acknowledge the subtle tremble in Barton's hand as he reached to take the weapon.

"Thanks, Wilson."

It was quiet – but it was sincere. Dan nodded, swallowing tightly.

"Be careful, okay? Putting Phil back together is one thing, but I'm not offering any two for one specials this week."

Barton nodded once, looking to Romanoff as she slid back out of the curtain.

"Happy hunting, kids. I've got a job of my own to do."

Romanoff and Barton turned, heading for the door where Todd was waiting – barking at someone on his phone. The three of them pushed out of the infirmary doors and disappeared from sight.

Dan sighed and watched the nurses start prepping Phil to be moved to surgery.

Time to scrub in.

* * *

Fury looked up when Barton and Romanoff strode through the hangar door. Barton's eyebrow arched in question.

"The Council has been briefed. They're demanding evidence before we move." Fury paused meaningfully, meeting both of their eyes individually. "Which means as of right now, we are off-books."

Both assassins nodded in grim understanding – but he saw something dark flash through Barton's gaze.

"Romanoff, Barton will join you on board momentarily."

Romanoff shared a quick glance with Barton before moving past them and up the jet ramp.

"I know what's at stake here, Barton. I will get you that kill order. Just trust the system."

Barton scoffed, shaking his head.

"You mean trust the Council – trust that at the end of the day they'll do the right thing?" When Fury didn't contradict him, Barton arched a sarcastic eyebrow. "Forgive me if I lack a little faith."

Fury supposed that was warranted. Barton had been on the Council's shit list from day damn one. He couldn't blame the kid for doubting them now.

"Then trust  _me_."

The skepticism that rose in Barton's eyes would have offended him if it was from anyone else. But Barton was smart – too smart to just trust someone because they asked. Fury had enough mystery to him that he knew Barton would never  _really_ trust him – not completely. But he needed the archer to trust him now – with this.

"By all rights, Barton, I shouldn't be letting you anywhere near this. You are compromised in the worst sense of the word right now. And yet, here we are. Because I know that you'd be going with or without orders…and I know that at the end of the day you always get it done."

"Because I'm just a bullet in a gun, right?" Barton didn't sound bitter, just tired. That was an old battle – one Barton had been fighting with the Council – and with himself – for years.

Fury stepped forward, toe to toe with Barton for the second time today.

"I am  _not_  the Council. And you are not the bullet, Barton – you're the goddamned gun. And we  _both_  know you've always controlled the trigger."

Fury could tell by his eyes that Romanoff's name floated through Barton's mind just as it did Fury's.

"So control the damn trigger and  _trust_  me."

Barton's chin lifted and he stared hard at him – his blue-gray gaze intense. Then he nodded slowly. Fury nodded in return and just hoped to god that Barton was able to keep that control he was so famous for. Hoped that he didn't put one between Williams' eyes the moment he set his sights on the man – no matter his promises to Fury and everyone else.

As he watched Barton jog up the ramp, he silently prayed that he hadn't just set Barton up to fail – that he hadn't just allowed Phil's boy to put himself in a position to earn a kill order of his own. He prayed that Barton had the strength to  _not_ pull the trigger just one more time.

* * *

Natasha watched Clint settle back in his seat – autopilot just engaged.

"What are you going to do?"

Because honestly – she wasn't sure if Clint would be able to wait for a kill order, or that he even wanted to. She wasn't sure she would be able to stop him if he didn't.

"I'm gonna kill the son of a bitch with an ass-load of prejudice."

Natasha tilted her head in acknowledgement to the swift, firm reply.

"I know you're angry." He scoffed like that was the understatement of the century. "But we need to keep our heads on straight. You can't let your emotions cloud this, or you'll put one between his eyes the moment you see him."

Clint sighed and titled his head back, staring at the roof of the jet.

"And that's a bad thing?"

Natasha sighed. Of all the times to be purposefully obstinate…

"Clint."

"I know I have to wait," he acknowledged quietly. Then he lowered his head and met her eyes. "But I don't know if I can."

Natasha frowned – recognizing the darkness seeping into his tone.

"What do you mean?"

Clint turned his eyes back to the front window.

"I've got darkness in me, Tasha…It lingers, right below the surface and I have to _fight_  every time I go out on a mission – every time I put an arrow into someone or pull a trigger – to keep it from taking over. And right now…" he shook his head, "I haven't felt it like this since I was seventeen years old."

Natasha watched him carefully, hearing the tremors of anger and pain in his voice.

"It's ripping me apart – trying to claw its way out and you know what I want more than  _anything_?"

She waited – knowing he wasn't expecting an answer.

"I just want to give in."

Natasha swallowed. She knew about darkness – had more than her fair share lurking in her soul. She knew Clint carried his own share too – kept it buried deep. She'd watched him fight it down as they faced some of the worst of the human race – and he  _always_  fought it down. He always kept the darkness at bay. It was that strength that made him who he was. It was that strength that had made him  _her_  beacon when she'd fought her way free of her own black soul.

And right now – before her eyes – that strength was crumbling.

"But you won't."

Clint's eyes narrowed.

"Because fighting is too much a part of who you are for you to just  _give in._  Giving in is weak – it's easy."

She waited for him to meet her eyes. As she'd anticipated, defiance lit his gaze at the mention of weakness. That was one thing he could never stand to be.

"Are you weak, Clint?"

Something she couldn't identify darkened his gaze and he looked away.

"Because the man that  _I_ know – the man that saved my life – he's the strongest person I've ever met. He had the strength to do what he  _believed_  was right even when  _everyone_ , even  _Phil_ , told him it was wrong."

If there was ever any evidence that his strength came from no one but  _himself_ , that mission in Paris was it.

"Are you that man or not?"

His chin lifted fractionally and he finally returned his gaze to hers. She could see resolve seeping into his eyes – could see him fortifying that strength he'd nearly given up on.

"Besides," she smirked. "Phil will kick your ass if you do this any way but the right one."

His lips quirked seemingly against his will and he shook his head ruefully.

Natasha smiled, because he knew just as well as she did – that it was true.

* * *

End of Chapter 6

Who thinks Clint can hold out and who thinks he'll ice Williams the second he sees him?

So show of hands if you watched Agents of SHIELD last night? My hand is up in the air right now and just...yeah...loved it. LOVED COULSON in it :) Loved the little Hawkeye action figure that was in the window with all the other action figures :D simply awesome :)

So I realized I was missing something...so I've decided to put myself in that 'something's shoes in an attempt to find it...so here goes...

If I were a comment...where would I be...hmm...oh I KNOW...right down there, in the comment box! What a GREAT place for a comment, don'tcha think? You should make sure there's one down there, since that's where they belong...is there? no? you should fix that! :D

Can you tell I've had some sugar today? XD

Here's your preview!

* * *

_There, standing across the room with a hand gun aimed at Clint's forehead, was Matthew Williams._

_Hate – stronger than he'd ever felt in his life – rose inside him._

_Williams' eyes reflected similar feelings._

_At least they were on the same page._


	7. I'm Still Not Sure What I Stand For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to those who commented on Chapter 6: indynerdgirl, Stefanie, and RoS13 Thanks! :D
> 
> I realized about five minutes ago that I'd failed to post Chapter 7 this morning for you guys! I'm so sorry! Here it is!
> 
> Thank you to Kylen for being all her beta-awesomeness :)
> 
> This story is dedicated to Kylen
> 
> On to Chapter Seven...

  
_Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides._   
_**Lao Tzu** _   


* * *

Todd glanced over his shoulder as he rapped his knuckles firmly against Fury's office door. No one on the bridge was paying him any mind. Everyone too wrapped up in his or her scrambling attempts to manage damage control. With a weary sigh, Todd turned back to the door and waited.

The glass was tinted too black to be transparent and he'd just begun to wonder if Fury was actually in there when a sharp voice suddenly snapped out, "Enter." Without hesitation, he pushed his way through the door, letting it fall closed behind him.

Fury was sitting behind his desk, staring intensely at his computer screen. Hill was sitting in a chair opposite him, typing furiously on her data pad. The furrow that was settled in Fury's brow didn't soften even as he turned his eye to Todd.

"Under normal circumstances, you do not fall into the direct chain of command, Agent Bryan."

Todd felt his eyebrow creep upwards, wondering if Fury had a reason for bringing to attention his lack of authority over anything but the trainees.

"But as it stands," Fury sighed, "these circumstances are far from normal – so take a seat."

Todd nodded once and shifted without further prompting to the second chair opposite Fury. Hill didn't even look up from her data pad as she suddenly spoke.

"We've got personnel from Vienna, Paris, London, and Moscow in the air as we speak. The personnel from Panama are on approach and the team from Brasilia won't be far behind."

Fury nodded and braced his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers in front of his chin.

"Given the nature of your relationship with Agent Barton – and his propensity to do whatever the hell he wants no matter what I or anybody else says – I'm going to assume he filled you in on the circumstances surrounding his and Romanoff's recent departure."

It wasn't a question – so Todd didn't treat it as one. He lifted his chin slightly in defense – of himself or Barton, he wasn't entirely sure.

"Kid didn't volunteer the information – but when I asked he didn't lie."

Fury arched an eyebrow and Todd sighed.

"With all the shit going on, he wasn't exactly up to keeping his game face on. I took advantage."

"Not up to keeping his game face on" might have been the understatement of Todd's lifetime. He'd never seen Barton locked in such a struggle just to  _keep it together_.

Fury stared at him for a long moment and then tilted his head in approval. Todd let out a slightly relieved breath and slid his palms along his thighs – glancing at Hill, who hadn't lifted her eyes from her data pad. If the clenching of her jaw was anything to go by, she was far from supportive of Barton and Romanoff's current course of action.

Todd looked back to Fury.

"Speaking of the pain in the ass, what's the word?"

For a very brief moment Fury looked about as concerned about Barton's mental state as Todd was – but then the director's expression smoothed and he leaned back in his chair, leaving Todd to wonder if he'd imagined the concern.

"I got the call from Romanoff that they'd landed just before you came in – they're headed to William's location as we speak."

Todd blew out a deep breath. One way or another, this was going to end –  _soon_. He just hoped when all the chips were down, that the right people were still standing.

"But I didn't call you here to talk about Barton." Fury shifted forward in his seat again, staring hard at Todd. "With Phil down, I've been told you've been handling the personnel."

Todd wouldn't really say he'd been  _handling_  anything – more like he'd been putting out fires. Word was spreading about Barton's power play with Dan to get Phil on a jet. People who weren't even there were getting pissed. And the people that  _were_ there…

Todd sighed, forcing himself to meet Fury's hard gaze.

If there had been any doubt that Fury had heard about what happened, it fled in that moment.

Fury knew. Knew Barton had done what Barton did best – pissed on the rule book. Only this time it wasn't just Barton – it was Dan and Todd too. He couldn't speak for Dan, but he'd walked in on the standoff and known right away that Barton was a breath away from dropping bodies. So he'd done the only thing he could to prevent that.

He'd given the kid what he wanted.

It wasn't personal. It had nothing to do with Phil lying bleeding on the ground. Nothing to do with his knowledge of what Phil meant to Barton – of what it would do to him if Phil died. It had nothing to do with having known Barton for almost seven years, with sharing a kinship founded in the kind of loss few others could ever understand. It had nothing to do with not being able to stomach the thought of Barton losing the most important person in his life – with wanting in that moment to protect the kid from that with every fiber of his being.

 _Yeah_  – not personal his ass.

Fury's eye was watching him with a calculated type of understanding – but he was also waiting. Waiting for Todd to answer the unasked question.

"People are pissed. Apparently after we took off, the situation on the ground nearly escalated into a riot. Some of my men that stayed behind were able to get it under control before it got that far, but now the rumors are setting fires faster than I can put them out."

Fury nodded, his eye thoughtful and his expression giving nothing away.

Hill suddenly looked up, her face set in such a way that Todd was sure she'd been fighting the urge to speak…and had apparently lost that fight.

"What Barton did was out of line. To breach triage protocol like that undermines the whole  _purpose_  of having those protocols in place."

Todd wondered if she always played devil's advocate – or if only Barton brought that out in her. Either way, he couldn't let the archer go undefended.

"He'd just seen a man that's like a brother to him gunned down. He wasn't thinking clearly."

"So naturally you and Dr. Wilson  _had_  to aid and abet."

Todd arched an eyebrow.

"Have you  _met_  Clint Barton?" Because anybody that had would  _know_  that it wouldn't have mattered what he or anybody else did – Phil was going to be on that jet.

She frowned at him, not seeming to follow his point. Todd felt his gaze harden, but before he could explain exactly what Barton would have done if not "aided and abetted," Fury spoke.

"It's already done – debating it now won't change that. What we've got to focus on is how to handle the aftermath."

Todd sat back in his chair wearily. Fury was right. Next to him, Hill looked similarly quelled.

"Keep putting out the fires, Bryan. And assure those concerned that this incident will not go without repercussion."

Todd felt a shot of trepidation.

"Sir…"

Fury suddenly looked as tired as Todd felt.

"I can't just let it slide, Bryan. You know that. Somebody is going to have to answer for what happened."

Todd's mind went to Barton – to the soul crushing pain and fear the kid was shouldering right now because the man that meant more than anything to him could be dying. The Council – when they caught wind of what the archer had done – would want blood. Williams out of the mix or not, there was a lot of bad blood between Barton and the Council. They'd  _love_  to have a reason to nail him to the wall.

Todd couldn't let that happen. Not when Barton would have done the same thing for him, or for Dan – hell, for Fury. Not when he had pulled up his big boy shorts and made the choice to back Barton's play all on his  _damned_ own.

Fury must have seen the resolve gathering in his eyes, because when he spoke, it was as if he'd read Todd's mind.

"I will _not_  be taking any statements on the matter at this juncture, Agent Bryan." Fury gave him a weighted look. "I need my remaining personnel doing their jobs."

 _Right_. Todd nodded. Like it or not, he was the best bet at filling Phil's shoes at the moment.

"Do we know if this was an isolated attack?"

Hill looked up from her data pad, seemingly interested in the answer to that question herself.

"More than likely, the threat has passed. Williams is in the wind and for all he knows, he got what he wanted. The New York base is – for all intents and purposes – in ruins. So unless he's in contact with someone on the carrier, he has no way of knowing Barton is still alive. That should give the kid all the advantage he needs."

Todd inclined his head in agreement, though he doubted Barton needed any sort of advantage at this point. The kid was hungry for blood and Todd knew without a doubt that he'd get it. It wouldn't matter if Williams saw him coming or not.

"What about the Council?" Hill asked suddenly. "What if one of them is in communication with him?" She paused and then added, "That is assuming he really  _is_  the one behind this."

Todd barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He supposed one of them  _did_  need to keep an open mind. He was just glad it didn't have to be him. He was perfectly content imagining Williams in a body bag.

"The Council was not made aware of Barton's current status – or of his current objective."

Fury said it carefully – eyeing Hill seriously. Todd glanced at her.

'Livid' didn't seem to quite cover it.

"You didn't tell them?"

"No." Fury's tone was succinct and offered no room for contradiction or argument. He leaned forward, leveling Hill with a gaze hard enough that even Todd swallowed. "Let's get one thing perfectly clear. Agent Barton has been targeted  _ruthlessly_  for the past seven years by a member of that Council. Whether they knew about Williams' vendetta or not, they have proven just as much a threat to him as the son of a bitch himself. I will  _not_  jeopardize him or his current mission for the sake of propriety and protocol."

Todd watched Fury thoughtfully – hearing the mixture of worry and anger in the director's tone. He could relate. He was worried and angry too. Worried that no matter what they did, they'd never be able to really keep Barton safe. Worried that no matter how this mess with Williams turned out, the Council would  _always_  be some sort of a threat to the kid. And he was angry – angry that for almost seven years, Barton had been targeted. Not by enemies on the outside, but by enemies from within.

Hill clenched her jaw, but the defiance left her posture.

"So what do we do?" She finally asked quietly.

Fury sat back.

"Barton can handle Williams. Until then, the Council is demanding evidence to link him to the attack. I got word that one of the men that led the mercenaries is still alive and captured. They're bringing him here for questioning."

"You think he'll talk?" Todd frowned doubtfully.

Fury's eye hardened and Todd suddenly remembered  _why_  this man was their leader.

"I'll see to it that he does."

Todd wanted to be there for that conversation.

"I need you to keep managing our personnel. Get those fit for duty assigned somewhere useful – with only a skeleton crew on board when this started, there are some glaring holes in our defenses. And for God's sake, keep the rumors quiet and the fires out. We've got enough to worry about without the personnel throwing a shit fit."

Todd nodded.

"I'll do my best."

"Do better." Fury stood from his desk. "Hill, you handle the teams coming from the other bases. Use the additional personnel to help Bryan fortify the defenses first. If we're wrong and there  _is_  another attack, we need to be ready. Divert anybody left with any sort of first aid training to the infirmary to help manage the overload."

Hill nodded firmly and stood as well. With a sigh, Todd pushed himself to his feet.

"Sir…"

Fury raised an eyebrow in question.

"Phil?"

Fury's eyebrow lowered and he shook his head slightly.

"Wilson is still in surgery with him. We don't know anything yet – when we do, I'll let you know."

Todd nodded – that would have to be enough for now.

Fury's attention diverted to his phone that was ringing on his desk. He granted them both one last glance.

"Dismissed."

* * *

Clint felt rather than saw Natasha crouch on the roof next to him. His attention was focused completely on the house two blocks down and across the street.

"Men on the rooftops." Clint announced as he reached into his cargo pocket for his handheld scope. He brought it to his eye and started counting. "Nine."

"You think he's there?"

Clint lowered the scope and handed it to her almost absently, giving her a chance to see the lay of the land for herself.

"With nine private security on the rooftop and half a dozen more on the ground, I'd say so."

Natasha looked over at him and he turned to meet her gaze.

"Do you want to wait for visual confirmation?"

Clint looked back at the building.

"No. He's there."

Natasha didn't argue with him, trusting his instincts as easily as he did hers.

In either an intentional or subconscious way, Williams was tipping his hand by putting more men on the rooftop than on the ground. The man must fear – deep in his bones – that Clint would be coming for him. And apparently Williams knew, as most people that knew him did, that he would come from above.

Clint didn't know if it was his instincts – his sixth sense when it came to his job, or if part of him just knew this was finally all going to end – but Williams was in that building waiting for him.

He could feel it.

"Less resistance on the ground." Natasha pointed out without any conviction.

Clint eyed the large house, thinking, planning. The rooftop had two levels. The main one, only two stories high, was complete with a large skylight and what seemed to be a rooftop garden area. That area only covered half the size of the house though – the other half continued to rise another story.

At first glance it seemed like a terrible place to hide. It was flashy and obvious.

But it was defensible.

The taller rooftop rose a story higher than any of the adjoining houses, giving the five guards up there a clear view of anyone approaching by rooftop. The lower one, while on the same level as those around it, had little space to maneuver because of the skylight. The four guards patrolling it were milling around almost lazily.

"We hit them on the lower rooftop – take out the guy on the west side," he pointed at a lone man leaning against the side of the house, "and climb."

Natasha nodded.

"We can conceal our approach if we come through the neighbor's yard, use their fence as cover."

Clint nodded in agreement.

"That should get us close enough to move without being spotted." She smirked darkly. "At least not until it's too late."

"You handle the four on the first level and I'll go up and handle the five on the second."

"By the time the rest of the ground patrol figures out what's going on, I should be ready for them." Natasha assured.

Clint nodded and stood. He had no doubt that his fiery spider would be  _more_  than ready to handle any guards that tried to join the party. The woman could hand him  _his_  ass on a consistent basis and none of these guys – no matter how good they were – should give her as much trouble as he did.

"Let's go."

Before he could do more than shift in preparation to move, she put a hand on his arm. He paused obediently and shifted his eyes to hers in question.

"Remember why we're here."

Clint's eyes narrowed and he felt a wave of annoyance sweep through him. Why did everyone keep talking to him like he was going to fly off the handle and do something stupid? Like he didn't have the control to refrain from putting an arrow or a bullet through Williams' forehead the moment he saw him.

He tensed, ready to rip his arm out of her grip and snap something fittingly sarcastic back at her. But he aborted that course of action before it became anything more than a plan.

This was  _Natasha – his_  Natasha.

If there was anyone else in the world besides Phil that could claim to know him inside and out, it was her. She knew what Phil meant to him, knew what Clint was going through right now. Knew how much he wanted Williams to bleed for what had happened not only to Phil but to everyone hurt in the attack.

She  _knew_  him and cared about him.

And he'd been about to lash out at her for reminding him to keep perspective.

Clint forced himself to relax and blew out a calming breath. Maybe her reminder was more necessary than he wanted to admit.

He met her eyes again, his emotions calming even further by the concern he saw shining there.

_What the hell had he done before her?_

Unable to resist, he slid his arm out of her grip and threaded his hand into the hair at the base of her head. She responded immediately to his gentle pull and rose onto her tiptoes, meeting him halfway for the kiss that he suddenly and inexplicably couldn't do without.

He pulled away before his body really wanted him to, but now wasn't the time or place for the kind of thing his body  _really_  wanted. All he'd wanted to do was acknowledge what she meant to him. He could tell by the slightly dazed look in her impossibly green eyes that he'd been successful.

He blew out a breath and leaned to rest his forehead against hers.

The backs of the fingers on her left hand grazed gently across his cheek and then the same palm came to rest on the back curve of his jaw. He couldn't help but lean into the touch, his forehead rolling across hers.

He was so far off his game right now it wasn't even funny. He didn't want to think about what state he'd be in if she wasn't here, keeping him grounded.

For a long moment they stood unmoving, quietly breathing the shared air between them.

Finally Natasha broke the spell.

"Let's go kill some bad guys."

Clint smirked and pulled away completely.

"I do  _love_  to kill bad guys."

* * *

Natasha stared through the thin break in the slats of the tall wooden fence separating them from her prey. Clint was next to her, his eyes pinned not on the man leaning casually against the side of the house, but on the guard milling around the edge of the rooftop two stories above them.

Both assassins stayed pressed close to the fence, trusting its height to protect them from premature discovery as they waited for their chance to strike.

The guard on the ground sighed deeply and glanced back over his shoulder. Seeing no one behind him, he returned his gaze forward. Natasha wondered how long Williams had been hiding here – if he'd cut and run before the attack even happened. She wondered if his men knew exactly  _who_  they were guarding against.

She didn't think they did. No one who knew Hawkeye and the Black Widow were coming for them would be leaning casually against the house and sighing like they were bored.

Either way, the guard's complacency was their ticket in.

Clint suddenly tapped her shoulder once and turned, putting his back to the fence and lacing his fingers together, palms up. He bent his knees and nodded.

Natasha cast one last look up at the roof – seeing nothing but a man's back – and put her boot in Clint's hands. She only had seconds to get over the fence and take out the guard on the ground without risking the man up top turning back and seeing her coming over the fence.

She braced her hands on Clint's shoulders and crouched. Clint crouched with her and then she jumped. He boosted her with his hands and she was flying. She caught her hands on the top of the fence and propelled her body over it. She landed silently on the other side and honed in on her prey.

She crept closer and reached around the man's head with one hand. She felt him nearly jump out of his skin as her hand locked around his chin and her other hand pressed firmly into the crown of his head. All he had time to do was inhale sharply before she twisted sharply and caught his suddenly dead weight as it dropped. She pulled him back and rested him against the side of the house, glancing over her shoulder to where Clint still stood. She nodded, telling him she was ready.

A moment later she saw the boards of the fence shift then his hands where gripping the top of the fence, his lithe body appearing on top of it a silent moment later. He stayed crouched there for a moment, balancing like his perch was a mile wide instead of an inch.

His eyes found hers and he nodded.

Natasha turned and backed up, facing the side of the house. Two running steps and she planted her foot on a window sill. She launched herself off of it, her other boot catching the bracket of the drainpipe on the corner of the house. Another push off of it and she was latching onto the second story window sill.

She pulled herself up to crouch in the window, grateful for the dark curtains she already knew hid her from view. Williams may not want anyone being able to see in – namely a deadly sniper that only needed a glimpse – but it also kept him from being able to see out.

She took a moment to check Clint's progress, allowing a small appreciative smirk to slide across her lips when she saw him hanging by his finger tips from the top ledge of the roof. If she had to guess, she'd bet he'd jumped from the fence to the other second story window and then used the thin upper sill of the window to propel himself higher – high enough to snag the ledge.

She knew because that was exactly what  _she_ was going to do.

A moment later she was hanging in the same way he was, nothing but her finger tips visible to anyone above. But she knew from experience that nobody looked for fingertips – especially not finger tips on the ledge they'd only turned away from for a few moments.

She looked around her arm to Clint. His jaw was clenched and her mind suddenly conjured up the image of the bullet crease on his side – deep enough to see the white bone of his rib. Hanging like that had to be hell for that injury, which was only what – five, six hours old now? Her own bruised ribs were offering up their own protest but she pushed it away.

They didn't have time for pain.

Clint's blue gray eyes were suddenly on her and he nodded once.

In near synchronization, they both swung slightly back, bent at the waist, braced their boots on the side of the house and pushed off. They pulled up with their arms at the same time, channeling the momentum from their push  _up_  instead of away from the house. They crested the ledge at the same time, coming to rest in distinctly predatory crouches as they took in the situation in front of them.

A single gasp of surprise was all any of the guards managed before both assassins exploded into action.

Natasha leapt at the nearest guard, the man whose briefly turned back had given them the opening they needed to jump the fence. She braced one foot against his thigh and jumped bringing first one and then the other leg up to wrap around his neck.

Then she arched backwards, threading her body around his and towards the ground. The man's head cracked into the concrete of the rooftop even as the rest of his body flipped over itself and landed with a thud.

Natasha pushed into a runner's stance, already sprinting towards her next target.

In the back of her mind – the part that was so perfectly in tune with Clint that she knew exactly where he was even in the midst of her own battle– she noticed him running directly across the glass skylight. The path would alert anyone inside to the fight upstairs, but it was the most direct route to the other side of the roof and to the second level, where five more guards were likely seconds away from realizing the breach below and opening fire.

She jumped, clearing a small potted plant easily as she closed in on the second of the four guards on this level. He was only just getting his gun brought to bear when she was on him. A sharp windmill kick knocked the gun from his hand. She followed the momentum of the kick, torqueing her body into an aerial spin. She hooked her left leg around his neck and pulled herself up, shifting her leg around his neck as she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled herself across his shoulders, her left knee still locked around his neck. She kept her grip on his shoulder as she sharply pulled the leg back, tucking her head as the man started to fall backwards under the assault. Her shoulders hit the ground first and she rolled her body up even as she slammed her leg down, cracking the man's back and head into the ground and scissoring his neck between her legs.

No sooner had she kicked her way free than she was forced to roll to the left and behind a brick encased flower bed to avoid the sudden gunfire spitting in her direction.

She peeked over the edge of the brick in time to see Clint cresting the ledge of the second level. He disappeared from sight a breath later and she forced her focus back to the remaining two guards on her level.

They'd stopped firing and were both sneaking closer, guns up. One was coming from the complete opposite corner of the roof and the second didn't seem inclined to approach her position on his own – waiting instead for his comrade to join him so they could go after her together.

She smirked.

All they'd done was make her job easier.

She watched their approach through the cover of the flowers and slowly drew her knife from the sheath at her thigh. When they were close enough she all but flew from her hiding spot, knocking one gun away with her boot and the other with her free hand.

She spun, slamming the knife hilt deep into the first man's chest. Even as the man gasped and gurgled his last breath, she released the knife and turned to the second man, snapping her leg into a high crescent kick that cracked his jaw bone. He stumbled back but didn't fall. He even tried to reach for his side arm as he backed away.

Natasha stalked his retreat with a dark, predatory smirk. He'd barely begun to pull the gun free of the holster before she drew back her foot and slammed it into his crotch. The man's face went purple and he doubled forward, right into Natasha's waiting knee.

Natasha was already moving back to retrieve her knife when she heard shouts on the other side of the roof access door. She yanked her knife free, wiped it calmly on the dead guard's shirt and shifted to wait against the wall next to the door.

The door slammed open at the same time a surprised shout rose from somewhere above her. She looked up even as she turned and drove her boot up into the throat of the first man through the door.

Her eyes widened and worry spiked through her as she watched two figures suddenly tumble over the edge of the ledge above her. The two men struggled for dominance as they fell. For a moment she wondered why the guards were fighting each other because neither man had a quiver strapped to his back and Clint wasn't in the habit of relinquishing that particular item – especially not in the midst of a fight.

Then she caught a glimpse of sandy blonde hair and was given a short look at his face a moment before they hit the skylight. The glass shattered with the impact and then they were falling again – out of sight.

"CLINT!"

* * *

Clint had dropped the first of the five men before they even realized what was happening. A sharp twist of the man's neck and he was gone from the fight. He had his bow drawn and nocked even as the other four turned to face him, drawn more by the sudden gunfire below than by his appearance.

He dropped the nearest man with an arrow to the throat and managed to loose another arrow to knock away another's gun before they were on him.

He knocked another gun away with his bow and the last one with a sharp kick. Then a boot slammed into his wrist, sending his bow skittering across the rooftop. Clint had his knife drawn from his back before his lost weapon even settled. He leaned back to avoid a jab from his left, caught the offending wrist in his right hand and pulled the man closer, reaching with his left hand to jerk the knife across the man's throat.

Clint sent his boot into the man's stomach to knock him away even as he threw his right elbow up into the man on his right's jaw. He immediately swung the same arm into a right cross, his fist cracking into the third man's cheek.

He caught the glint of a knife in his peripheral and threw himself back a step. Pain lanced across his chest. The cut was shallow, nothing more than an annoyance, it was only when he felt the strap of his quiver snap and the quiver itself drop suddenly from his back that Clint got pissed.

He drove the sole of his boot into the inside of the knife-wielder's knee, taking immense satisfaction from the shout of pain that erupted from the man's throat. Clint slammed his left fist, still firmly wrapped around the hilt of his knife, into the man's nose and then swung the knife in an arc, slamming it to the hilt into the side of the other man's neck.

The boot that hit his chest was unexpected. He stumbled back a step, the knife sliding free as the body fell away. Clint got his right arm up in time to block the high kick aimed at his head and lashed out with the knife.

The final man – apparently more pissed off about his broken nose and damaged knee than hampered by them – crouched, dodging the blade, if only barely.

He kicked out at Clint's feet, sending him back another step to prevent contact.

Realizing he was dancing dangerously close to the edge of the roof, Clint stepped left, swinging his knife in a wide arc again, mostly to force the man to give him room to maneuver away from the edge.

The man slid under the blade, hands fisting in Clint's black t-shirt.

Clint realized what was about to happen a moment before the man gave a bellow and jerked Clint towards the edge with all his strength.

This was one of those times being a smaller guy really bit him in the ass.

His opponent had at least fifty pounds on him and all Clint could do was wrap his own vice-like grip – made strong from years of handling his bow – around the front of the man's shirt and yank him along for the ride.

The way the man's eyes widened in sudden fear and he shouted in surprise would have been entertaining if Clint hadn't suddenly found himself and his enemy out in open air.

Then they were falling.

They battled fiercely for dominance, neither wanting to be on the bottom when they inevitably hit the skylight they were careening towards. Clint managed to drive his knife up between the man's ribs just as the larger man twisted, forcing Clint beneath him.

Just in time for Clint's back to slam into the glass.

The impact felt about like he'd expect a ten-foot fall to feel when you had over two hundred pounds of human body slamming down on top of you. But then, before his body could settle and a breath, before the back of his head would have cracked into the glass and no doubt made him start having to flip a coin on which of the two guards he was seeing was the real one – the glass gave way with a resounding crack and he was falling again.

_Oh this was gonna_ _**hurt** _ **.**

He distantly heard Natasha shout his name, but he had precious seconds to act or he'd be landing back-first on a pile of glass his thin t-shirt would do little to protect him from. He pushed his forearm against the guard's windpipe, gaining precious maneuvering room for a fraction of a second as the man drew back so his breathing wouldn't be hampered. Breathing apparently meant more to the stabbed man than keeping his position because he gave Clint the room he was seeking.

A fraction of a second was all Clint needed – and really all he had.

He slid his arm across the man's neck, hooking his elbow behind the curve of the man's jawbone. Then he twisted sharply, using the meager leverage he had to force the man to twist as well. He got the man under him just as the ground rushed to meet them – its surface glittering dangerously with the glass shards their entrance had created.

The impact just plain  _hurt_.

Even with the guard's body absorbing most of the force from the landing, Clint's body slammed into his with enough speed to make his teeth rattle in his head. His momentum had him colliding with his opponent in a bone-crushing body slam before continuing to pull him into a bone-jarring roll off his impromptu cushion and onto the glass-littered floor.

He rolled once, then twice, before his body finally came to a painful stop, face down on the ground.

"Son of a  _bitch_!"

It was nothing but a hissing whisper – his shocked body couldn't manage more that that at the moment – but he felt like it got his point across to the universe.

The back of his neck prickled, alerting him to someone other than his now unconscious, maybe dead, adversary in the room. The knowledge had him dragging his bare forearms through the glass and underneath him, pushing himself up and forcing his knees to bend and fold beneath his body. As his body worked on auto pilot to get him into a defensible – well  _semi_ -defensible because right now that was about all he figured he could manage until his bones stopped rattling – stance, his eyes searched for the presence that was making every instinct he had scream in warning.

There, standing across the room with a hand gun aimed at Clint's forehead, was Matthew Williams.

Hate – stronger than he'd ever felt in his life – rose inside him.

Williams' eyes reflected similar feelings.

At least they were on the same page.

Slowly, Clint rose to his feet, eyeing Williams like the prey he was. The man seemed to sense the predatory aggression in his stance because he swallowed and tightened his hand around the gun.

"Don't move."

Williams' voice sounded level enough, but Clint could hear the undercurrent of hate – and fear.

Clint cocked his head to the side and took one, stalking and predatory step forward.

"Look who grew a pair and is finally doing his own dirty work."

"I said  _don't_  move."

Clint felt his lips slide into a dark smirk but he didn't move again. Williams' eyes drifted up to the shattered section of the skylight, no doubt wondering if there was a way he could recall the men Clint could hear Natasha battling right now.

Clint wouldn't want to be alone with him right now either.

He shifted another step closer while the council member's eyes were on the skylight.

"Bet you're wishing you didn't send the rest of your hired guns up there to stop me from getting  _down here_."

If his tone was a little darker there at the end – his smirk a little more deadly – then Clint didn't really think it should be held against him.

"I suppose I have your little bitch to thank for their current distraction."

Clint's shook his head and tisked in mock scolding.

"Better not let her hear you call her that. She doesn't like name calling unless she's the one doing it." He titled his head and smirked a little. "And it's in Russian."

Williams' eyebrows rose slightly in disbelief and then quickly shifted into deep furrow.

"You can spout off all the sarcastic humor you want, Agent Barton." Williams' lips quirked into a dark smirk of his own. "We both know it's a smoke screen."

Williams was looking at him now in the same way the man had looked at him every time they'd faced each other in a briefing over the years. Like he was broken. Like he was  _worth_  nothing. Like he was wasting the oxygen around him by breathing it.

Clint had never understood why the nameless Council member who he'd only ever met through a TV screen had hated him before he ever opened his mouth.

Now it was all too clear.

"We both know that you slap on that shit-eating little smirk and hide behind it." Williams shifted his grip on the gun, like he wasn't used to the feel of it in his hand. Clint tilted his head a little.

That was interesting.

"But you've never talked faster or louder than when you're trying to over compensate. You've always laid it on a little thicker when something has gone  _horribly, terribly_  wrong."

 _That_  got Clint's attention.

"You Dr. Phil now? Gonna ask me how I feel? We gonna share and care and braid each other's hair?"

Williams smirked, seemingly pleased by the bravado.

"Who is it? Who went down in the attack?"

Clint felt all traces of humor fade away from his expression as he thought of Phil. He itched to reach for one of the Desert Eagles strapped to his thighs and end this conversation here and now.

Williams' smirk grew into a real, honest-to-God grin and Clint resisted the urge to beat if off his face. Because like it or not, for the moment, Williams was the one with the gun and Clint was a fast draw but he wasn't exactly Billy the Kid.

"If Romanoff is up there…there's only one other person that could put that look in your eye." Williams looked suddenly euphoric. "It's Agent Coulson, isn't it?"

Clint strained to keep his hands from clenching into fists, forcing himself to continue to appear calm and relaxed. Williams was still too far away for him to disarm him before the man got a shot off. And despite what everyone seemed to think, he  _didn't_  like getting shot.

" _Please_ , tell me he's dead."

Clint stalked another step forward and Williams' hand tightened on the gun.

"Stop! You think I won't shoot you? I've been waiting for this moment for  _years_."

"Then  _shoot_  me and stop talking about it." Clint moved another step. "But you better make that first shot count, because you won't get a second."

Williams' expression tightened and his finger started to close on the trigger.

Clint cocked his head suddenly.

"But you  _might_  want to flip the safety off first."

Williams' eyes dropped to the gun. Clint was on him before the man had a chance to realize it was just a distraction technique. Clint twisted the gun out of Williams' hand even as he kicked the man's legs out from under him. Williams hit his back hard and Clint shifted to stand over him, gun now pointed at its owner.

"Come  _on_ , man!" Clint mocked. "That's the  _oldest_  trick in the book. This wasn't even  _fun_  for me." He put his boot into William's chest when the man tried to rise. "And if you don't know your safety is off without having to look, you really shouldn't be playing with guns." Clint glared as Williams continued to struggle and his tone turned to stone. " _Stop_  moving."

Williams froze, breathing hard.

Clint stared down at the man, remembering the bodies scattered around the base, the chaos at the RV point. He remembered  _Phil_. He shifted his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger itself.

It would be so  _easy_  to end this right now – to finally be done with Williams and everything tied to the man.

He didn't realize the sounds of the battle above had stopped until glass crunched behind him.

"Clint."

Her voice pulled him from his dark thoughts, but his finger didn't leave the trigger.

" _Clint_."

Her hand was suddenly on his arm. She didn't try to push his arm down, didn't try to take the gun away. She was just  _there_  – reminding him why  _he_  was there.

It took more willpower than it should have, but he forced his finger off the trigger – the haze of rage fading from his vision and allowing him to process the look on Williams' face for the first time.

The man looked vindicated –  _happy_  even. Like everything he'd ever believed about Clint had just been proven true.

And maybe it had. He knew – more than he knew anything – that if Natasha hadn't shown up when she had, Williams' brain would have ended up a smear on the floor.

A cell phone suddenly appeared in his line of sight.

"Call it in. I'll secure him."

She was getting him away from Williams, giving him a chance to put his game face back on. Without a word he drew back from his predatory stance over Williams. He waved away her phone. He had his own.

"I'm surprised." Williams hissed at him suddenly. "Maybe Coulson doesn't mean as much to you as I thought."

Clint flipped the gun in his hand and lunged forward, cracking the grip against Williams' temple. The man fell back onto the ground, eyes closed and blood leaking from a fresh gash in his hairline.

"Feel better?" Natasha asked as Clint backed away for a second time.

"No."

Clint turned away, putting his back to both of them and walking away. He needed some distance. He ejected the clip – letting it drop to the ground – cleared the chamber and then sharply pulled the slide free. He tossed the pieces aside and reached into his pocket for his own phone.

He forced himself to draw in a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly. He heard Natasha moving Williams behind him and then put his attention on the phone. He dialed quickly and brought it to his ear.

One good thing about working within the states for once – bypassing call in procedure was a lot easier when all he had to do was dial Fury's private cell number.

" _Fury."_

"Williams is secure."

There was a pause and Clint rolled his neck to release some of the tension settled in his shoulders. He answered the question he knew was on the director's mind before the man asked it.

"He's  _alive_ , Fury. For now, at least."

If he wasn't mistaken, Fury's next breath sounded relieved. Probably best not to give away how near a thing  _that_  had been.

" _That's good to hear."_

"We'll just agree to disagree on that one. How's Phil?"

" _Still in surgery. I'm sure Wilson will call you himself once he has anything to tell."_

Clint blew out a frustrated breath. That whole 'no news is good news' bit was  _crap_  and this waiting game  _sucked_.

"So what now?"

" _I'm working a few things on my end. Interrogate Williams – see what you can get out of him. We need to know how far this security breach he caused goes."_

"Got it."

Fury hung up and Clint slid the phone back into his pocket. He turned and watched Natasha as she handcuffed Williams to the pipe under the sink in the bathroom.

She stepped away from the still unconscious man and slid out of the bathroom, leaving the door open. Clint glanced around the room – a living room, it seemed – eyes falling on the man he'd used to cushion his fall.

He moved to the body, pulling his knife free as she joined him over the body.

"You okay?" He asked quietly, wiping the knife on the dead man's shirt. He had no idea how many guards she had to fight off up there – but other than a few bruises blossoming on her face and a cut above her eyebrow, she seemed okay.

"Bumps and bruises – I'm good. You?"

Clint nodded.

"I'm fine."

He sensed Natasha's doubtful frown and forced himself to smirk.

"Shaken and stirred from that fall, but I'm good."

She nodded slowly, eyes calculating. Clint stood and looked up at the skylight. Of  _course_  a rich-blooded house like this had to have high ceilings. His back ached at the memory of that fall.

Natasha's hand on his arm drew his attention again.

She was holding out his bow and quiver.

"Stumbled on these while fighting the good fight up there. Figured you didn't want to leave them lying around."

Clint huffed a slight laugh, hand ghosting over the shallow cut on his chest as he remembered his quiver strap getting severed. He'd forgotten about losing his weapons once he'd come face to face with Williams.

"Now what?" Natasha asked, grabbing his wrist and twisting it to get a look at the bloody cuts and scratches he'd gotten from the glass.

"We wait for Williams to wake up – and then we have a little chat."

* * *

End of Chapter Seven

Whew...Clint was "this" close to just ending it all right then and there...good thing he brought Natasha along :)

I have a great love for comments- many of you know this...I simply ask please...please sir, I want some more!

Here's your preview!

* * *

_"It's **justice** – for the life you  **stole** from my daughter!"_

_Clint forced himself to appear unaffected when in reality just the mention of Brianna Williams nearly gutted him._

_"Attacking a SHIELD base is **justice**? You gonna try and sell that? I think all the dead SHIELD personnel would  **disagree**."_

_Williams shrugged._

_"Collateral damage is an acceptable sacrifice for the greater good."_


	8. Whoa oh oh (What Do I Stand For)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to indynerdgirl and CTScan for commenting on Chapter 7!
> 
> Thank you to Kylen for her beta-ing :) She is responsible for Dan's words in this chapter :) as I'm sure you've come to expect lol
> 
> This story is dedicated to Kylen
> 
> On to Chapter Eight...

  
_Life and death matters, yes. And the question of how to behave in this world, how to go in the face of everything. Time is short and the water is rising._   
_**Raymond Carver** _   


* * *

Fury slid his cell phone – a private line that a  _very_  select few actually knew the number to – back into his pocket. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared through the two-way mirror separating him from his target.

The mercenary looked unconcerned – about both his confinement and the length of time he'd been left to wait. He sat, literally shackled to a simple metal chair, in the middle of the room. There was no table, no bright light to shine in the man's eyes. No – just open space surrounding him. Space Fury would use.

You could intimidate a lot more effectively if you were right up in a man's personal space than if you had a table separating you. And you could play with someone's mental stability a whole lot better if you could circle them, stand behind them, and let their imagination get the best of them.

Fury blew out a breath.

Barton hadn't killed Williams on sight.

That was good.

It was also more of a relief than it should have been, but Fury couldn't find it in himself to even be irritated with the kid. Not when Barton was the goddamned  _victim_  in all of this. Not when the kid had apparently _been_  the victim for  _seven_  goddamned years.

It had started with the Andes. Fury should have  _known_  then that something was off. Barton may have been the cream of the fucking crop, but he had been nothing but a kid. Williams pushing for the archer to get handed the Orion mission should have been a red flag. The council member had played up Barton's apparent talents, had insisted that the opportunity couldn't be wasted, not when they had such a  _unique_ asset available to them.

And then the kid had nearly died.

Fury shook his head.

Williams probably would have been tickled pink if that had happened. But Williams hadn't accounted for Phil, for how attached he'd gotten to the sarcastic little smart ass, for how far he'd been willing to go to keep Barton alive.

None of them had.

And that had been back in the beginning. So much had happened since the Andes. Barton wasn't just an asset to Phil – hadn't been since the day he'd marched the surly,  _broken_  teenager into SHIELD and decided to fix him. But after the Andes, something had shifted. Barton was suddenly the most important thing in Phil's world. Barton was his brother, his best friend, his  _son_  in every way that mattered. Fury had seen it – had watched it happen, watched it build. He should have stopped it, maybe he would have if Cairo hadn't gone down the way it had.

To say Phil had been devastated didn't even begin to cover it. When Barton's transmission had gone out with the sound of an explosion and the media had reported a body in black combat gear with what seemed to be blonde hair, Fury had been sure Phil was going to turn in his resignation. If Barton hadn't turned out to be very much alive when it all shook out, he probably would have.

A stray thought struck Fury then.

How many missions had gone disastrously sideways on Barton? How many times had the kid been nearly killed? Too many – that's what Phil would say.

How many of those had been because of Mathew Williams?

Fury felt an emotion dangerously close to rage bubble in him. There had been nearly seven years between the Andes and the disaster that was Budapest.

Seven  _goddamned_  years.

Mission code names flashed through his mind, and he was left wondering if at the end of this more than one of those disasters would be tied to Williams.

He should have noticed.  _Somebody_  should have noticed. It didn't matter how careful Williams had been, how effectively he'd covered his tracks. They were  _SHIELD_  – counter intelligence was supposed to be their forte.

Fury shifted his stance slightly, the rage flowing away as quickly as it had come only to be replaced with a feeling of such guilt that he surprised himself.

 _He_  should have noticed.

 _He_  was the goddamned director of the most elite covert organization in the world. Of  _everyone_ , he should have been able to protect Barton, especially within the walls of his own base. But he hadn't – hadn't even realized there was a problem. Had written off the Council's hatred of the archer as Barton's propensity to piss off any authority figure he came across. Had written off the sideways missions as Barton's bad luck, because the kid had  _that_  in spades.

Had written off the hatred he saw in Matthew Williams' eyes as a product of what Barton was. For as much as the Council liked to use Barton and now Romanoff to do their dirty work, they made no attempt to hide their disgust for what the two assassins did.

Fury uncrossed his arms and stood up straighter. He couldn't change the past, but he could damn well make sure that  _this_  is where it all ended.

He moved to the door separating him from the mercenary, leaving the nearly-empty observation room behind him. Bryan and Hill had both stepped away from their duties to be here for this, both now seemed to be lost in their own thoughts.

Fury closed the door behind him and strode casually towards the mercenary. To his credit, the man maintained his unaffected manner. He merely shifted his eyes to track Fury's progress, and met his eye unflinchingly as Fury circled in front of him. He continued to hold his gaze as Fury moved, finally forced to break it as Fury circled behind him.

Fury stopped, standing directly behind the mercenary, as silent as death. It took a moment, but finally the man swallowed and shifted very slightly in his chair. Fury remained stoically silent, waiting. A full three minutes passed in silence before the man shifted in his chair again and blew out a frustrated breath.

"Just ask your damn questions."

Fury tilted his head and remained silent. The accent was faint, but it was definitely something Eastern European. Fury waited.

"Look, I'm willing to deal. Just tell me what you want."

"I'm not in the habit of making deals with terrorists."

It was  _exactly_  what he intended to do, but the merc didn't know that. And Fury did not intend to be the one begging to make nice.

"Terrorists?" The man actually sounded insulted. "I'm not a terrorist."

Fury circled back around to meet the man's eyes.

"You attacked a United States Military installation without provocation."

The man blinked, genuine surprise filtering through his expression before he hid it away.

Fury nodded slightly.

"He didn't tell you."

The merc frowned.

"I'm not talking until there's a deal."

"Then have a nice lifetime in Guantanamo Bay."

Fury turned away and headed for the door.

"Wait." The man sounded resigned.

Fury didn't allow himself an outward reaction, but inside, felt a warm rush of triumph. He turned back slowly and waited.

"I'm a business man," the merc stated with a sigh. "It's bad business to give up information on my clients. If it gets out…"

Fury hardened his glare.

"I don't think you're in a position to worry about your reputation."

The merc clenched his jaw and glared back.

"I want to walk away. I'll tell you everything I know if I have a guarantee that I can walk out of here."

Fury was in the man's face in two strides, his hands wrapped around the arms of the metal chair and his nose inches from the merc's.

"For all I know, you don't know enough to earn a drink of  _water_. So if you want to deal, you better stop negotiating and start talking. _Then_ , and  _only_  then, we can talk about what your information buys you."

The merc's jaw clenched tightly and he blew out a sharp breath through his nose, clearly intimidated by Fury's looming presence but unwilling to show it.

"That offer expires in the next breath you take, so you better make your choice."

The merc's eyes widened.

"There were playing cards."

Fury withdrew from the man's personal space and reached into his pocket, pulling the hit cards out and tossing them in the man's lap.

The merc shifted his handcuffed hands and picked the cards up from his lap, shifting them so the ace – Barton – was on top.

"This was the main target. Everybody was showed this guy's picture. Our orders were to do whatever it took to find and eliminate him."

Fury crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

"The other two," the merc shifted through Phil and Romanoff's cards, "they were secondary. The orders were to eliminate them on sight, but they weren't the priority." The man shook his head. "We were told to expect resistance but we had no idea we were tangling with military-trained personnel." The man offered Fury a wry look. "Imagine our surprise when our teams started dropping."

Fury wasn't about to feel sympathetic to their losses. The merc didn't seem to expect him to either.

"Who hired you?"

"I don't know."

Fury turned to the door and reached for the handle.

"I  _don't_  know!" The merc insisted. "We never met face to face – only over the phone. The payments were transferred online."

Fury regarded the man seriously but could find no signs of deception.

"Give me the account number."

The merc balked.

"That's my living. No way I'm handing it over."

Fury shrugged as if he were unconcerned.

"Your choice. But so far you haven't told me anything I didn't already know. So your chances of ever seeing that money again are growing slimmer by the moment."

The merc shook his head.

"You won't be able to back trace the payments. I've  _tried_. The money came from a fresh account tied to a random alias that was opened by a cash deposit."

Fury arched an eyebrow.

"It's smart to know who's paying you. It's the best way to ensure that you get paid." The merc shrugged like that was just part of the business.

The lengths the merc's mysterious benefactor had gone to in order to stay anonymous just further pointed to Williams as far as Fury was concerned.

"The phone?" Fury asked.

"You already have it. They took it off me before I was trussed up in here." The merc volunteered. "I doubt you'll be able to tie it to anyone, though. All the calls were made from a burn phone."

Fury kept his expression impassive, but he was marginally impressed. The merc had certainly done his homework. Burn phone or not, his techs  _should_  be able to find out who the phone belonged to – eventually. It was something.

"How did you get on the base?"

"We were given gate codes. Once we took out the guards at the gate, it was practically like we were invited."

Fury nodded. They'd expected that already.

"Was this an isolated attack?"

The merc nodded immediately.

"As far as our part went in it, yes. It's over."

Fury wished that were true. Who knew if Williams had contracted anyone else to make trouble? Until they knew for sure, they'd have to keep their defenses bolstered.

Fury titled his head slightly, regarding the merc.

"We'll continue to hold you for now, as I'm sure understand."

The merc nodded in resignation.

"But when it is clear that the threat has passed, we'll address your… _situation_ …and whether or not I'm willing to rectify it."

The merc frowned, opening his mouth to protest.

Fury stepped closer and leaned into the man's personal space again, taking back the playing cards.

"You broke into my base – killed my people – and you think I'm just going to let you  _walk_?"

The pure rage and danger Fury hoped to communicate through his eye must have come across clearly because the mercenary looked momentarily terrified. He covered it quickly and forced himself to speak.

"I gave you what you wanted."

"Yes." Fury didn't let his glare waver. "You did."

Fury turned to the door without another word, leaving the man to protest uselessly – demanding a deal, demanding promises of his release. Fury ignored him and pulled the door open.

Hill was already digging through the mercenary's personal effects when he came back into the observation room.

"Find that phone and get it to the techs. I want to know who this guy's been in contact with."

Hill held the phone up triumphantly and all but ran out of the room. Fury leaned out of the door and looked at the guards stationed outside the interrogation room door.

"Move him to an isolated cell, remove the restraints and give him something to eat and drink."

The guards nodded and Fury moved back into the room to regard its other occupant.

Bryan's arms were crossed and he was staring darkly at the merc through the two-way mirror as the man was approached by the guards.

"If that phone comes up empty, we've got nothing."

Fury moved to stand with Bryan, looking back at the merc as he stood and was shuffled towards the door. The man didn't look nearly as unconcerned as he had last time he'd stood in this position. Fury had clearly put the man on edge.

_Good._

"The techs will find something." Fury knew they'd at least find who was making the calls to the merc. Whether that name would be associated with Williams was another matter.

Bryan looked at him, his gaze heavy.

"And if they don't?"

"Then we better pray Barton keeps his cool long enough to get a confession."

Bryan shook his head.

"We better pray  _Phil survives_  because if he doesn't, Williams is dead – confession or not."

* * *

Clint stood, arms crossed, expression stormy, in the doorway of the bathroom. He waited. Williams was stirring and Clint wanted the first thing the man saw to be  _him_. He wanted Williams to  _feel_  the weight of Clint's dangerous and deadly disposition.

He was  _intensely_  satisfied when Williams flinched bodily at the sight of him and tried to back away, managing only to hit his head on the sink. It only took a moment for the man to forget his fear and remember his hatred.

The physical change was fascinating. The man went from cowering against the wall beneath the sink to sitting forward, hate making his expression hard. He looked for all the world like he wanted to reach across the space between them and strangle Clint with his bare hands.

Clint wondered if people were as fascinated by him when he flipped the switch from playful sarcasm to deadly assassin.

"Is there a reason I'm not dead?" Williams asked, his tone almost terrifyingly level.

Clint stared down at him and remained silent. Silence could be a powerful weapon in interrogation. It set people on edge – it made them question their own words. It frustrated them and pushed them closer to losing their cool than any words ever could.

Clint was good at silence – had become an expert at it. So he waited.

"You can kill people every day but now you don't have the nerve?  _Now_  you hold yourself in check?"

Clint barely blinked as he held Williams' hate-filled gaze with his own stormy eyes.

"He must not be dead yet." Williams tilted his head slightly. "Pity."

Clint felt his teeth grind painfully together as his jaw clenched, but he gave no outward reaction to Williams' words. Neither of them needed the clarification about who he was talking about.

"I'd  _hoped_  that you would go down in the attack. You always did have a propensity to run toward gunfire instead of away. I'd been counting on that recklessness."

Clint's jaw ticked.

"But  _again_ you refuse to die properly. You always come back." Williams sneered angrily. "Like a cockroach."

Clint couldn't help the amused arch in his eyebrow. It was meant to be insulting, he was sure, but he'd been called worse – by  _Natasha_.

His amusement seemed to feed Williams' anger.

"All these years, I've pulled strings, I've done everything I could to  _end_  you – all the while staying safely behind the curtain. Finally,  _finally_ , I have the perfect plan. An attack on the base." Williams was practically crowing, he was so proud of himself. "I was  _certain_ even you would be overwhelmed by the sheer  _number_  of men I hired. And  _yet_ …" Williams gestured angrily at him, "I'm again disappointed."

Clint smirked darkly.

Williams shook his head in frustration.

"You never should have walked away from the Orion mission. Coulson should have left you to  _rot_ , whether you allowed your own capture or not. It was protocol!"

Clint had always suspected the Orion mission in the Andes Mountains had been an attempt to get rid of him. To hear it confirmed was more satisfying than concerning. The official report was that he'd allowed his own capture to gain access to the base. Coulson had been a little… _liberal_ …with the details there. Either way, Phil  _should_  have left him there. But he hadn't, had broken protocol like it was his job and had pulled Clint out of that cell instead.

"I accepted it as a fluke – a rash attempt to get my justice that nearly drew too much attention. I was more  _careful_  after that."

Clint arched an eyebrow.

"Justice? Why don't you own up and call this what it is."

Williams looked momentarily startled by his interruption. Clint took advantage and continued.

"Revenge."

The councilman's face went nearly purple in rage.

"It's  _justice_  – for the life you  _stole_  from my daughter!"

Clint forced himself to appear unaffected when in reality just the mention of Brianna Williams nearly gutted him.

"Attacking a SHIELD base is  _justice?_  You gonna try and sell that? I think all the dead SHIELD personnel would  _disagree_."

Williams shrugged.

"Collateral damage is an acceptable sacrifice for the greater good."

Clint forced himself to keep his temper in check, felt his hands clench into fists where they were hidden under his arms. He could leave it there – he had his confession. He hadn't even had to do any real interrogating. Williams had been proud as a peach to claim ownership over what he'd done.

Collateral damage.

That's all the SHIELD personnel were to Williams. But Phil wasn't collateral damage – he'd had his face on a playing card right along with Clint.

"Why'd you target Phil and Natasha?"

Williams blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt question.

"You wanted me dead – I get that. Why Phil and Natasha?"

Williams' lips pulled back into an ugly smile.

"Because for some reason they seem to  _care_  about you. I knew they'd never stop digging if you died. I couldn't afford for Coulson to dig any farther than he already had. That email he uncovered…" Williams shook his head, "was unfortunate."

Clint felt his finger nails dig into his palms.

"One mistake in  _seven_  years and the man found it. Granted, at the time, I'd been certain Moreno would kill you both."

Budapest. He had nearly died –  _Natasha_  had nearly died. The man spoke about it like it was a business deal that had gone unfortunately wrong.

"Romanoff was just a bonus. She's a murdering sociopath, just like you. She needs to be put down. All the sweeter because she means so much to you."

Clint forced himself to turn away – knew that if he didn't, he'd do something rash. He couldn't keep looking at the hot hatred in the man's eyes, couldn't listen to him coolly talk about killing Natasha and Phil.

"You should have been dead that day in Uzbekistan." The hate filled words were spat at his back and Clint stopped.

Uzbekistan. He still had nightmares about those hours he'd been tortured – about dying only to be pulled back from the edge by Phil.

"I knew, the moment we were told that you'd gone against orders for Romanoff, that they'd be making you scarce for a while. Fury – for all his blustering – has gone soft when it comes to you. You should have gotten a bullet in the head for what you pulled, but even I knew Fury would never do that. A few encrypted and untraceable phone calls and I had a team of mercenaries waiting for you."

Clint turned back slowly.

"I had you then and the victory was  _so_  sweet."

Clint felt his breathing speed almost imperceptibly. All the questions about that day. Years of wondering why they hadn't just killed him – why they'd tortured him without apparent purpose instead. He never thought he'd know the answers.

"I couldn't resist the need to see you  _suffer."_

A shiver went down Clint's spine and he barely managed not to let it show. He'd never had someone hate him that much – even Barney had been content just to see him dead.

"Fury never told us that Coulson and Bryan went after you until it was already over. If I'd known, I'd have had them put a bullet in your head from the start. Coulson's devotion to you," Williams shook his head in derision, as if the thought was disgusting to him, "I never understood it. Why a man like that would risk so much for someone like  _you,_ was always a mystery. I only hope that at least  _that_ annoyance will soon be rectified."

Clint didn't remember deciding to move – he was just suddenly holding Williams against the wall. The man's wrists were pulling painfully against the cuffs, his arms bent awkwardly under the sink as Clint forced the man's body higher with a hand around his neck.

He put his mouth next to the suddenly shaking man's ear, his voice coming out in a dark, low hiss that was almost foreign to his own ears. He hadn't heard that tone since he was seventeen.

"The  _only_  reason you're still breathing is because of  _him_. Phil would kick my ass if I killed you without the order." He tightened his hand on the man's neck, watching the man's face turn purple. "But if he  _dies,_ " he dug his fingers into the side of Williams' neck, "you won't survive the ten seconds that follow. Orders or no orders."

Williams made a choking, gurgling sound, but Clint didn't loosen his hand – found himself tightening his grip instead without conscious thought.

Strong hands were suddenly on his arm, tightening to the point of pain and forcing his attention away from Williams bulging eyes.

Natasha.

"…ook at me, Clint!"

He dropped Williams suddenly – like the man's skin was on fire. Williams dropped like a brick to the ground, gasping and grabbing at his bruised throat with his shackled hands.

Clint let Natasha push him back, out of the bathroom and away from Williams. The further he got, the more the rage bled away.

" _Look_  at me!"

His eyes snapped to Natasha's. He expected anger, disappointment that he'd lost control. All he saw was concern. It was then that he realized her hand was still on his forearm, the grip bruising. The pain of her grip, pressing so firmly into the fresh cuts and scrapes on his arms from the glass, brought him crashing back to reality.

"Don't let him do that to you. Don't let him change who you are, you understand me?"

Her voice was low, but there was a barely hidden note of fear. But not fear  _of_  him – fear  _for_ him.

"You chose to be better. You chose not to be the man that killed his daughter. Don't let him take that from you."

Clint nodded shakily, feeling a subtle trembling start in his hands. He pulled his arm from Natasha's grip, fisting his hands to hide the shaking. Adrenaline highs like that always led to an equally abrupt crash.

"It's over, Clint."

Natasha held up her cell phone. Clint had known she was recording, remembered that had been part of the plan. The council could call Clint a liar all they wanted, but they couldn't argue with Williams himself as he claimed responsibility for the attack.

He'd forgotten about that recording around the time the man had started talking about Phil.

"I edited out the part where you tried to kill him."

"I wasn't gonna kill him." Clint defended suddenly. He frowned. At least he didn't think he was going to. He was trying to scare him, to drive home how close Williams was to that fate.

Natasha looked doubtful. Clint couldn't blame her. He didn't even remember deciding to move on Williams, much less deciding to put his hand around the man's throat. He'd practically blacked out in his rage over the man's flippancy about Phil's survival.

The memory of the man's words nearly brought that rage right back to the surface. Natasha seemed to sense that and steered him further into the room, out of Williams' line of sight.

"I'm going to send this in. Just…just stay over here. Sit down before you fall down."

Clint nodded but didn't sit. He watched her move away, dialing her phone and bringing it to her ear. He barely noticed when his feet started moving, carrying him five paces to his left, pivot, five paces back to the right. Repeat.

The order would come now. It was just a matter of time. Even if the Council had their heads up their asses about this, Fury would force them to see reason. He had to.

Clint clenched his shaking hands as he paced and was suddenly terrified of what he'd do if Fury failed.

* * *

Natasha leaned forward, bracing her elbows against her knees as she sat and watched Clint pace. He was practically prowling like a caged animal, waiting for a break in the defenses so he could attack. Right now those defenses were the invisible line between killing on orders and murder. It was a thin line and getting thinner the longer they waited for the okay to end this.

She'd gotten off the phone with Agent Hill less than twenty minutes ago. She'd tried, unsuccessfully, to get Clint to sit down, to just take a breath. He'd refused with more fervor than she'd expected. He wouldn't even let her check him over.

That fall through the skylights  _had_  to have hurt. He had cuts and scrapes on his forearms from where he'd pushed himself up – some of them deep enough that they were still sluggishly bleeding. He was holding himself stiffly, his back nearly ramrod straight and his shoulders bunched with so much tension that she had to fight the urge to force him into a chair to massage it out. There were rips in his t-shirt, most of them practically glued to his body now with small dried patches of blood.

Glass tended to cause a lot of little wounds, especially when you used your body to break it.

He pivoted and started his five paces back to the left.

She sighed.

She'd managed to keep him from killing Williams, but that was about the extent of her ability to get through to him. His worry for Phil practically radiated from him and she didn't know what else to say. Maybe there was nothing  _to_  say.

Either Phil lived or he didn't. Natasha was ready to stay by Clint's side no matter which way this ended. She wouldn't leave him alone, even if that meant letting him kill Williams without the order.

Letting him.

She almost scoffed.

If Phil died, she knew she wouldn't be able to stop him even she wanted to. She'd  _barely_  been able to break through his haze of black rage when Williams had merely  _mentioned_ his hope for Phil's death.

She'd seen Clint pushed to his breaking point before – or she thought she had. She'd been the one trapped with him a month ago in Budapest. She'd watched him spiral further and further away from reality and into his hallucinations.

She'd thought watching him brokenly beg his hallucinated brother not to kill him had been the lowest she'd ever see him. That had been worse than holding him for the first time after the tragedy in Vietnam while he silently mourned the deaths of all of those children.

But this was worse. The fear, the pain, it was palpable, surrounding him like a cloud. And Phil was still alive, as far as they knew, at least. If he died…

She shook her head. If Phil died, she'd let Clint do what he needed to do and they'd leave. Simple as that. Even if the kill order came through, she knew that without Phil they wouldn't be going back to SHIELD.

The sudden ringing of a phone startled them both. Clint finally paused his endless pacing and fished the phone out of his pocket, frowning at the name on the caller ID, and then answering it.

"Wilson?"

There was so much fear, hope, and sheer exhaustion mixed up in the simple greeting that Natasha practically leapt out of her chair and to Clint's side.

* * *

Clint clenched his hand around his phone so tightly his fingers hurt.

" _Barton…"_  Wilson sounded exhausted, and beyond weary. Almost…

_Defeated?_

"How's Phil?" Clint barely noticed he'd stopped breathing as he asked – didn't hear the bone-deep exhaustion in his own tone – the shake in it. The fear that made his free hand clench into a bloodless fist at his side and his voice tremble.

" _Shit, kid. Maybe you should sit down."_

No.

Clint barely felt the phone slide from his hand, didn't hear it clatter to the floor over the sudden ringing in his ears.

Phil was dead.

Sudden pain in his knees was the only indication he had that his legs had stopped supporting him, had left him to crash down until his knee caps hit the floor hard.

Williams had killed him.

The rage came back so suddenly it overwhelmed him – overwhelmed any physical pain he was feeling. He practically exploded to his feet, shaking off the foreign hand on his shoulder and making it to the bathroom door in four long strides.

He barely registered the shock on Williams' face when he suddenly appeared in the doorway. The man spoke almost immediately, a smug smile on his face – victory in his eyes.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

Most people saw red when rage overtook them.

Clint saw black. He thought it was fitting – it matched his soul.

He was on Williams in the next breath, bare fists slamming into the smug face. He jerked the man up by his shirt, ignoring – barely hearing – the shout of pain as one of Williams' wrists broke under the sudden pressure of the handcuffs.

He slammed him hard back into the wall, the plaster behind him cracking. As the body started to fall, Clint didn't let it. He slammed a sharp left uppercut into Williams' jaw and followed it with a sharp flurry of hits to the man's soft belly. A knee to the chest as the man fell set his back cracking sharply into the wall again and Clint swung his right elbow sharply into his jaw.

He felt his hard uppercut into Williams' ribs break bone – maybe both in his hand and in the man's body. Williams screamed.

Clint didn't. He couldn't  _feel_  anything.

Hands suddenly clawed into his shoulders pulling him sharply back and allowing Williams to fall into a bloody heap on the ground.

Williams  _laughed_.

Clint shook the hands off and tried to advance again, but the hands were suddenly on his chest, pushing hard against him.

Clint saw red.

His vision filled with it suddenly and then a familiar voice penetrated the ringing in his ears.

"…ot dead, damn it! Clint! Listen to me!" Her hands slammed hard against his chest, driving the air out of his lungs and sending him back a step. "HE'S NOT DEAD!"

_He's not dead._

"Phil's  _not_  dead!"

Clint could only stare at her in disbelief. It wasn't true. Wilson had said…

Except Wilson hadn't  _said_  anything yet. Clint had heard it in the man's voice, had heard the weariness, the defeat. He'd told Clint to sit down. Nobody said that unless it was bad news.

"Damn it, Clint!  _Breathe_!"

A sharp shake had him drawing in a painful breath and it was only then that he realized his lungs were burning, his head pounding. The spots he hadn't noticed invade his vision faded away.

Natasha's face swam into focus. She had a hand on either side of his face where she knelt in front of him. Clint didn't remember going to the ground, but that's where he was, his legs folded awkwardly beneath him with his butt on the floor.

"Phil's not dead, Clint." Natasha assured again, some of the terror in her eyes fading away when Clint blinked.

"Phil's not dead." Clint repeated the words quietly – trying,  _forcing_ himself to process them.

Phil's not dead.

"You sounded like death warmed over. Wilson wanted you to sit down because you sounded like you were about to  _fall_  down."

"Phil's not dead."

She blew out a breath, seeming to be attempting to get her own emotions under control.

"No. Phil's not dead."

Clint drew in another breath, letting that thought resonate through every part of his being.

Phil's not dead.

Another voice – this quieter and more distant seeped into his brain. He watched Natasha lift a phone – his phone – to her ear.

"Yeah, I stopped him." She paused, her sharp green eyes searching Clint's gaze with heavy intensity. "Yeah, I told him and he seems to believe me." She paused again and sighed. "Let me get him into a chair."

She stood and held out her hand.

Clint stared at it for a long moment as her words caught up with him. He reached to take her hand with his left, suddenly horrified when he saw his hand shaking violently.

Natasha's grip caught his almost abruptly, tightening to the point of pain. It was warm and comforting and he squeezed back.

Before he knew what was happening she was pulling him up.

The wave of dizziness that hit him when he was vertical was so strong it almost sent him right back down. Natasha was ready though and gripped his arm tightly, keeping her hand wrapped in his as she steered him to a chair.

He all but dropped into it, pain spiking through his back at the jarring landing.

Damn skylight.

She held the phone out to him suddenly.

Clint reached for it and brought it to his ear.

"Wilson…what the  _hell_?!"

" _I've got about three pages of notes, Barton, and you sounded beat to shit and back!"_  Wilson sounded dangerously close to losing it himself – and as close to wits' end as Clint had ever heard him.  _"Though if I'm interrupting you, feel free to go back in and kill the bastard. You certainly have my permission_."

Clint ignored the angry response. It didn't matter right now. Williams didn't matter right now– only one thing mattered.

" _Wilson_!" He snapped. "PHIL!" he reminded sharply.

Phil wasn't dead. Phil  _wasn't_  dead. He repeated it to himself in a mantra, waiting for Wilson to assure him it was true.

He could practically  _hear_  Wilson's responding eye roll. The man had never been cowed by Clint's bouts of temper. It was one of the first steps to the doctor earning his respect.

" _What part of THREE PAGES OF NOTES did you not get?"_  This time it was Wilson's tone that snapped. His patience was apparently worn as thin as Clint's was.  _"He's alive, okay? He probably shouldn't be, but he is, okay? So take a goddamned breath, calm the hell down and let me give you the damn report!"_

Clint blinked at the sharp tone, remembering all at once that he wasn't the only one trapped in this nightmare. He cleared his throat and forced his free hand to unclench, retracting the fire from his tone at the same time.

Without the fire though, all he felt was shaken.

"Just…is he…" he blew out a shaky breath and internally ordered himself to pull it  _the hell_  together. "How is he?" He finally managed with a sigh.

He heard Wilson blow out a breath on the other end of the line.

" _He's in the ICU, and it's going to be another 12 hours before we know anything for sure, but I think he's going to make it."_  Dan's voice still sounded world-weary, but Clint could hear the pride as well.  _"The head wound was just a nasty crease. It skidded along the outside of the skull, and Phil's gonna have one hell of a headache, but we're watching to make sure there's no pressure building inside of the skull. So far, so good."_

Clint nodded – more for his own sake than Wilson's. The man couldn't see him after all. He licked his suddenly dry lips and cleared his throat again. He knew there was more, but he wasn't sure he was ready to hear it. He had a sudden vision of his hands – covered in Phil's blood.

He wiped his free palm against his pant leg.

"What else?"

" _That leg wound was a real bitch."_  Dan sighed again.  _"The sheer loss of blood volume would have been a problem in and of itself, but the bullet shredded an offshoot of the great saphenous vein. Another two inches, we wouldn't be having this conversation. The bullet would have hit the femoral artery, and he would've bled out before you ever got to the jet."_

Clint felt a sharp shudder shoot down his spine, igniting a sharp pain that he pushed away. It had been too close. Too damn close. He braced his right elbow on his knee and dropped his head into his hand, he barely felt a pain shoot through his middle finger before ignoring it.

" _We got in there and repaired the damage, and it looks like the work is gonna hold. His blood pressure almost bottomed out a couple of times, but we managed."_  Now the pride in Dan's voice was unmistakable.  _"Did a damned nice job on that, and another surgeon handled the chest wound. Miracle of miracles, that was almost a total through-and-through. Didn't bust a damned thing."_

Clint fisted his right hand in his hair, another pain in his finger clamoring for attention that he didn't give. Apparently where his luck with bullets was shit, Phil's was heaven sent. A leg wound that missed the femoral artery, a head wound that hadn't caused pressure build up, and a chest wound that hadn't busted a damned thing.

Clint would take that yin to his yang any day.

" _Barton?"_ Wilson's voice drew him back,  _"you still there?"_

"Two inches, Wilson? With the way Phil's luck shook out on this it might as well have been a mile, huh?"

God, Phil had gotten so damn lucky. Clint had been on the other side of that – where it had been so bad, the luck wasn't that the injuries were less severe than they could have been…it was that he even still alive at all.

" _For all the luck you've had, some of it must've transferred over."_ There was a tightness in Wilson's voice now.  _"You hear me, kid? I'm not sure how, but you guys beat the fucking odds here."_

Clint sighed and scrubbed his hand tiredly down his face.

"Luck, Wilson? Have you looked at my file lately? I've practically got 'shoot me' written on my forehead. " He rubbed his hand back up into his hair. "If anything  _that's_  what I transferred to Phil."

" _Barton…he's alive. You take that as a win. You hear me?"_

"Is that what you always tell Phil? To take it as a win…does that work?"

'Cuz it sure as hell didn't feel like enough to him.

This time, there was no mistaking the tightness in Wilson's voice.

" _Always has up until now, kid."_

Clint's eyebrows drew together as he frowned down at the ground.

"You tell me he's gonna be okay…I'll believe you." Clint swallowed thickly. "So just tell me that, okay?"

_Even if it's a lie._

Because it was only a matter of time before Fury called and gave him the green light to kill Williams. And when that time came it couldn't be about Phil – it couldn't be about revenge. Clint couldn't let himself go there. If he did, he'd carry it for the rest of his life.

It had to be about justice.

Because like he'd told Williams, there was a difference. And Clint had enough black marks on his soul. He didn't need another one.

" _That's what I'm telling you, kid."_ Dan's voice grew firmer _. "I don't lie about this shit. It might take some time, but he'll be okay."_

Clint nodded mostly to himself.

"When will he wake up?"

Dan chuckled.

" _Now that's a question I don't know. Why don't you take care of business, and then you can sit there and find out for yourself?"_

Clint smirked slightly.

"You sure you want me camping out in the infirmary? You might be asking for trouble with that."

" _Just finish what you went there to do, Barton, and get your ass home in one piece. I don't need or want any more fucking surprises today."_

Clint huffed a slight laugh.

"Fair enough." He sobered and tiredly straightened in the chair. "You'll call me if he comes around?"

" _I will, but I'm betting you'll be back before then."_

Clint tilted his head slightly. Maybe. Phil was a stubborn bastard though…he might surprise them.

"Yeah, then Phil can see how creepy it is to come to with someone watching you."

Creepy? Try outrageously comforting – but a man had to keep up appearances.

" _Right._ " Wilson seemed to see right through  _that_  particular piece of bullshit.  _"Now…are you all right? Give me a list."_

Clint barely stopped himself form doing a mental inventory. It wouldn't do him any good to acknowledge the aches and pains that were pushed to the back of his mind right now.

"I'm good."

Wilson snorted.

" _You keep on believing that for however long you need to, Barton."_

Clint intended to. Ignorance was bliss – or so someone had said once.

"You should go get some rest, Wilson. You should like shit."

" _To quote a certain smartass we all know and love, Barton – I'm good. At least, I will be after checking in on Phil and getting my 15 minutes."_

"What, you waiting for a written invitation? Go." Clint smirked. Biting sarcasm – it was his and Wilson's form of healthy communication. Clint hoped the doctor was up to hitting him back – giving him the normalcy he desperately needed right now.

" _Not from you, Barton. I'll deliver autographed pictures when you get home, though."_

Then the phone line clicked and Wilson was gone.

Clint couldn't help it. He smiled.

* * *

" _All you have is conjecture and circumstantial evidence. Surely you know that this is_ _ **not**_ _enough to merit issuing a kill order –_ _ **especially**_ _not on a member of the Council."_

Fury clenched his hands together where they were folded behind his back. How long had he been arguing with them? Twenty – thirty minutes now. It felt like years.

The bastards.

They were right, though. They  _didn't_  have enough to issue the kill order. No matter what Fury  _knew_ , this was about what he could prove.

"Are you presuming that a member of the Council is above the law? Is above wanting  _revenge_?"

The Council member – a man who had stepped up as the quasi-leader in the absence of Williams – slammed his hand down on his desk.

" _Do not put words in my mouth."_

"It sounded to me like you were saying a Council member is above reproach – like it would take more than the normally required evidence to assure a Council member's guilt."

If all else failed, stall. Talk them in circles until he had what he needed. Barton didn't corner the market on that tactic.

" _That's not what he was saying."_ A female council member spoke up sharply.

"Then enlighten me!" Fury snapped back.

He was pissing them off – he could see it in their faces. It felt good.

The door to the council chambers slammed open suddenly and Hill rushed in.

"Sir! Council members…" she held up a thumb drive, "you all need to hear this."

She moved to a computer consol and slid the thumb drive into place, bringing the audio file up on the screen.

"It took some time to confirm the voices." She glanced at Fury. "I wanted to be absolutely sure before I brought it in as evidence."

Hill was nothing if not thorough.

Quite suddenly Williams' voice filled the room – proudly claiming the attack on the base as a product of his own genius.

Fury felt a vindicated smile tug at his lips but he stamped it down. He nodded at Hill, who nodded back. Hill was also realistic. She'd known that that voice needed to be confirmed – the Council could have dismissed it otherwise. She may have even dismissed it herself. It had taken precious time, he knew, but it had paid off.

No matter what Hill believed personally, she was dogged in her pursuit of the truth. It was one of the reasons he had promoted her through the ranks so quickly. He wanted people like her in a position to play the devil's advocate – to speak the truth no matter what he wanted to hear.

He turned back to the Council, watching varying expression of shock and horror filter across their faces.

Finally, the recording ended, but not before they all heard Williams coldly wish Phil Coulson died today. He didn't want to know what Barton had done in response to that – and was glad the recording abruptly ended.

Fury lifted his chin.

"You were  _saying_  about Council members?"

They all just stared at him, still stuck in their shock.

"Your orders?" Fury asked, barely able to keep the ice out of his tone. If they didn't say what he wanted them to in the next few seconds, then to hell with them. He'd take the heat it brought – protect Barton best he could.

Williams was going to die today. He only wished he was there to pull the trigger himself.

The Council seemed to pull themselves together quite suddenly, with several clearing throats and thick swallows.

" _Do it. Issue the order."_

Fury met the man's eyes.

"And what order would that be?"

Maybe he was channeling Barton, but he wanted the bastard to say it.

" _Issue the kill order on Matthew Williams."_

* * *

End of Chapter Eight

Go Fury! And go Hill! See, she's not that bad...I figure Fury has her in that position BECAUSE she's not afraid to say what she really thinks. Every great leader needs someone like that by their side.

Now...I know it's cruel and unusual to make you wait until tomorrow for then next chapter, but that's just the way it is. You don't want the story over too quickly do you? As it is, there are 12 chapters to this story and, as usual, the final chapter is SUPER long :D So you still have quite a bit to look forward to!

Now, if you value my sanity...please comment. I'm a hopeless addict...HOPELESS I tell you! ;D

And the preview:

* * *

_"What family? Coulson? Romanoff? That doctor and trainer that you are so fond of? You think they actually care about you? That you're **anything** to them but a tool?"_

_Clint firmly ordered himself not to let his own insecurities rear their ugly head._

_"They treated you like any other abused animal – show it some human kindness and it'll do whatever you want."_


	9. Most Nights I Don't Know Anymore...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to those who commented on Chapter 8: indynerdgirl and Imagination
> 
> Thank you to Kylen for her beta-ing :) She did some preliminary role playing with me about Williams to help me make sure I had a handle on where I wanted this to go. I'm not sure how much of that original stuff I actually used, lol, but I figured she deserved the shout out for that anyway
> 
> story is dedicated to Kylen
> 
> On to Chapter Nine...

  
_The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them._   
_**Lois McMaster Bujold** _   


* * *

Clint held the top of his phone against his mouth for a long moment, his eyes on the bathroom doorway – the conversation with Wilson replaying in his head.

Phil would be okay. Wilson had all but promised him as much.

It had been almost thirty minutes since Natasha had sent the recording in to Hill. And knowing Hill, she was going to run every test known to man to make sure it was legit before she brought it to Fury. That was fine by him. That meant they couldn't try and ignore it. It also hopefully meant Clint would be getting the call soon.

And then he'd end this  _finally_. Two to the heart, one to the head. Old-school assassination. Then he could maybe,  _maybe_  put Brianna Williams and her father in his rearview.

Clint felt a frown turn down the corners of his mouth. But maybe there was something he needed to do before that could happen. Abruptly he stood from the chair Natasha had pushed him into only a few minutes ago and headed for the bathroom.

"Clint?" She sounded wary – for good reason. He  _had_  nearly killed the man  _how_  many times in the last hour?

Clint met her eyes over his shoulder, letting her see that he didn't have violence on his mind at this particular moment.

"I'm just gonna talk to him."

She narrowed her eyes but nodded slowly, allowing him to proceed without interference.

Clint moved to lean against the bathroom doorframe, folding his arms over his chest almost casually. He looked down at Williams, who – warily this time – raised his eyes to him. One of them was halfway to swelling shut, and blood was still dripping in grotesque patterns from the cuts Clint's fists had opened on his face. His breaths were a little closer to gasping than they had been before and there was a distinct wheeze with every inhalation.

"I have something to say to you."

Williams arched an eyebrow in vague curiosity, but the look in his eyes wondered what Clint could ever say to him that he would be interested in hearing.

"I'm sorry." Clint made sure to hold Williams' gaze. "About Brianna."

" _Don't_ you say her name." Williams hissed suddenly. "Don't say her name like you knew her."

Clint inclined his head slightly in deference. He  _hadn't_  known her. And he knew too well the importance of names. There was power in a first name and he guarded his fiercely.

They stared at each other for a long, tense moment.

"We found him, you know." Clint informed him quietly. "The man who hired me to kill her."

Williams' eyes narrowed.

"He's in Athens. We were going to leave to get him…" Clint huffed in vague surprise, " _today_  actually. I was gonna deliver the asshole to you with everything short of a bow."

The council member sneered.

"He's not the one who killed her."

"No…" Clint allowed, "that was me. But as you've taken great pleasure in reminding me…I'm just the bullet in the gun. I hit what I get aimed at. Gerard Maskov – he aimed me at your daughter and pulled the trigger."

Something flashed through Williams eyes at the mention of the man who'd hired Clint all those years ago, but now wasn't the time to start digging out that particular skeleton.

Williams shook his head, hate practically dripping from his eyes as he stared at Clint.

"You could have said no. But you  _didn't_. You  _murdered_  her. That was  _your_  choice."

Clint fought back a flinch. He knew it was true – he hadn't spent the last seven years hating himself because he  _hadn't_  had a choice. He hated himself because he  _had_  and he hadn't found another way. He'd _chosen_  to be a killer.

He'd been weak. He knew it then and he knew it now.

"You could have given me that man and it wouldn't have changed anything. I'd still want you dead. I'd still want you to die bloody and screaming."

"And collateral damage be damned?" Clint challenged darkly.

Williams smiled and it was an ugly thing to see.

"All for the greater good. And believe me –  _you_  dead is the greatest good there is."

Clint shook his head sadly. This man hated him so much he'd been willing to sacrifice anything and anybody that got in his way. So many innocent people had died in the name of his blind vengeance.

Williams scowled.

"How can you look at me like that? Like  _I'm_  the worst person you've ever faced? When  _you_  killed an innocent girl…when you saved  _Romanoff?"_

Clint's eyebrow twitched at the dig at Natasha and he sighed.

"Because I look at people and I see what no one else does. I see what they really are."

Williams glowered at him.

"And you can look at me and say I deserve to die when  _she,_ " he jerked his head towards the door, towards Natasha, "didn't? You could slit my daughter's throat but you couldn't kill  _her?_ "

Clint shook his head. William didn't get it.

"Who I was when I was sent for Natasha – that's not who I was when I was sent for your daughter. I wasn't seeing through the same eyes."

Williams scoffed.

"And what did you see? When you looked at…" he suddenly seemed to struggle to breathe, "when you looked at Brianna…what did you see? Why…" The man's pain was palpable. "Why didn't she deserve to be saved?"

Clint clenched his jaw, his own pain rising to echo Williams'. No matter what this man had done, Brianna Williams had been his  _daughter_. Clint owed  _her_  the truth at least.

"I saw a pay check." The admittance caused a sharp pain his chest and he let Williams see a reflection of that in his eyes. "But I was lost back then. I was nothing but darkness. I'll always have her blood and the blood of hundreds of others on my hands. I  _know_  that. I would do anything to take it back, but I  _can't_."

Williams sneered, his disbelief evident in his expression.

"Don't pretend you  _feel_  anything. You expect me to believe that you even know what regret  _is_? That you have any idea what  _pain_  I feel because of what you did?"

"You think I don't  _hate_  myself for what I did?" Clint shot back sharply. "You think I'm some sociopath that doesn't feel anything? You're  _wrong_."

"Am I?" Williams scoffed.

"Why the hell do you think I took the job when Phil offered it? Why do you think I couldn't kill Natasha when the time came? Because I didn't want to be that man anymore. I didn't want to be the man that killed your daughter. I wanted to be  _better_."

Williams shook his head with a derisive snort.

"What makes you think I care?"

Clint drew back as if the man had hit him.

"You killed my  _daughter_ , Barton. You think I give a damn about your useless quest for redemption?"

The words slid out of Williams in a low, spiteful tone.

Clint almost took a step back. Williams  _didn't_  care. He didn't care that Clint hated himself for killing Brianna. He didn't care that Clint had been trying to make it right for the last seven years. He just didn't care. All the man could feel was his hate. It had become the only thing that mattered to him.

Clint could only stare at him as Williams went on, each word more full of hate than the last.

"She had the  _world_  in front of her. She wanted to be a nurse, go to third-world countries and  _help_  people. All she cared about was helping others – never about herself. I had to  _beg_  her to take that trip, to enjoy her life before she gave it away for others. And you  _murdered_  her." Williams looked suddenly defeated and heartbroken. "Why? Just tell me  _why_?"

Williams was being purposefully dense. He couldn't just accept that it had been business to Clint – not personal. Clint was tired of being talked to like a psychotic serial killer that preyed on young women.

"Because I got offered a contract and I  _took_  it." He growled, his tone low and hard. "She was just a name to me. I didn't know who she was and I didn't  _care_. It was my  _job_."

Clint blew out a breath, unfolding himself from the doorframe.

"And I get it. You hate me.  _I get it_. And if you had just come after  _me_ , I would have  _understood!_ But you couldn't even do  _that_. You couldn't step up and kill me like a man. All this cloak and dagger shit, trying to make it look like a mission gone sideways…." Clint shook his head, his glare darkening. "You're a fucking _coward_ , Williams. And then you made your last mistake. You hurt  _my_  family."

Williams actually laughed.

"What family? Coulson? Romanoff? That doctor and trainer that you are so fond of? You think they actually care about you? That you're  _anything_  to them but a tool?"

Clint firmly ordered himself not to let his own insecurities rear their ugly head.

"They treated you like any other abused animal – show it some human kindness and it'll do whatever you want."

Clint fought not to flinch. Williams hit closer to the mark there than Clint figured he realized. Phillip Jacobs face flashed through his mind and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to clench his fists at his sides and give away the effect of Williams' words.

"Coulson staked his career on bringing you in. You don't think he would have done anything to keep from you proving to be the absolute failure we all expected? You think  _that's_  family? She was  _my daughter!_  My blood! All you are to them – all you'll  _ever_  be – is a tool!"

Williams shook his head in mocking sympathy.

"Poor little Clint with his dead mommy and daddy, with his brother that tried to kill him. Are you that _pathetic_  – that you've convinced yourself you've found a family amongst liars and killers? You don't have a family, Barton. You never  _have_ and you never  _will_."

Clint stepped back, retreating from the scathing words. How Williams knew about Barney was beyond him. _Nobody_  knew about that – nobody but Phil, Natasha, and the people at Carson's. Though with seven years of obsession, he supposed the man had probably uncovered more than Clint would ever want him to know.

Clint didn't have a real family. He was an orphan with a brother that hated him.

But blood wasn't what made family. If Phil had taught him anything over the years, it was that. He squared his shoulders and faced Williams once more.

"You don't know me, Williams. You may know the facts – the sordid details of my," Clint threw up some sarcastic air quotes, "'troubled childhood'…but you don't  _know_  me. You don't know Phil. You don't know what he is to me, or me to him. You don't know Natasha, or Wilson, or Bryan…you definitely don't remember what family  _is_  – what it  _means_. But…" Clint looked down as his phone started ringing in his hand. He smirked as 'Fury' lit the caller ID.

He brought the phone to his ear. Fury didn't even wait for him to answer before he spoke.

" _They've issued the order. Kill the son of a bitch."_

"Yes, sir." No sarcasm this time – no barely-hidden derision in the term that usually meant respect. Not this time. This time he'd never been happier to call Fury his boss – and the man deserved the respect that term demanded.

 _This time,_  at least.

Clint held Williams gaze as he lowered the phone, handing it off to Natasha who was suddenly at his shoulder.

" _But_ …" he continued his previous train of thought, "you were right about one thing, Williams." Clint pulled one of his Desert Eagles from the holsters strapped to his thighs and chambered a round in one deft movement. "I  _am_  a killer." He calmly aimed the gun at Williams' chest.

For a long moment they just stared at each other.

"I'd give anything to be able to take it back." Clint stated quietly. "She didn't deserve to die."

Hate still poured from Williams in waves just as it had from the beginning. Nothing had changed – nothing Clint had said had mattered.

"No, she didn't. I hope you burn in hell for what you did."

Clint had no doubt that he would.

Without another word, he squeezed the trigger three times and it was over.

For a long moment, Clint stared at the body – hate-filled eyes finally closed. But Clint knew he deserved the hate. This had all started because he'd made a choice – a choice to be a killer. Brianna Williams had paid the price for that choice, and now so had her father.

Natasha's hand slid gently down his arm, her fingers wrapping around his where they clenched the gun grip too tightly. She squeezed his hand gently – a soft pressure that was both reassuring and grounding. Before he realized what she was doing, she slid the gun out of his hand.

"It's over now." Her words were a soft whisper against his ear, her voice a balm on his ragged emotions.

"It's over for  _him_." Clint nodded slightly in Williams' direction. "It's over for Brianna." His fingers started to curl into a fist, but her hand in his stopped the action, she forced his fingers straight and entwined hers with his.

He didn't need to go on – she understood better than anyone ever would, even better than Phil.

It would never be over for Clint.

Because  _he_  was still here. He had to live every day with the knowledge of what he'd done. It would never be over for him any more than it would for Natasha. Her forehead pressed lightly against his jaw and for a moment they just stood there.

A couple of master assassins with patchwork souls.

Finally Natasha sighed, pressed her lips lightly against his jawline, and pulled away.

"I'll call it in."

Clint tightened his hand around hers when she started to pull away, finally pulling his eyes away from Williams.

"I'll do it."

Natasha nodded without argument and pressed his phone back into his hand. She waited until he turned to leave the bathroom and then followed, pulling the door shut behind them.

"I'll get our gear together."

He nodded and dialed Fury's private number – memorized years ago now.

" _Barton?"_

"It's done."

Fury sighed over the line, sounding weary and relieved all at once.

" _Well done, Barton."_

Fury wasn't talking about killing Williams – Clint could hear it in his tone. There was pride there. He was _proud_  of Clint. Not for killing Williams now, but for  _not_  killing him before. Clint allowed himself a moment to bask in that knowledge before allowing a smirk to curl his lips.

"Now, now,  _sir_ ," he threw as much sarcasm into that one word as he could manage, "don't go getting all mushy on me now. You caring is supposed to be kept between you, me, and the teddygram."

Fury's tone was as level as ever, but Clint could  _almost_  hear a smile in it.

" _I torched that bear, Barton – with prejudice."_

Clint let himself smile now as well.

"Sure you did – we both know you keep it locked up somewhere super secret. Probably in that safe, right along with your smile and that 'World's Best Super Spy' mug I got you for Christmas."

The pause on the other end of the line was…  _unexpected_. Clint felt his eyes narrow curiously even as Fury came back with an abrupt subject change, voice painfully devoid of emotion.

" _The Council wants to debrief you when you get back."_

 _Damn, the man was good._  Subject change – accepted.

"Do I have to?" If he sounded a touch whiny and petulant there, he blamed it on the exhaustion. Clint frowned as he suddenly tried to remember the last time he'd slept.

" _It wasn't presented as a request."_

Clint sighed.

"It never is."

" _It won't be like before, Barton."_

Fury actually sounded…sympathetic. The man  _had_  been at his shoulder every time he'd had to talk to the Council – and he'd protected him from them more times than Clint probably realized.

"Fine."

He could nearly hear Fury roll his eye. It hadn't been a request, so Clint knew his agreement hadn't really been needed.

" _So glad you approve. Now get your ass back here."_

Clint hesitated. He wanted to go back – wanted to see Phil alive and breathing more than he wanted anything right now.

But he couldn't go back – not yet.

"There's something I have to do first."

Natasha turned to face him, no confusion in her eyes, just acceptance. She'd probably known what he was going to do before he even decided himself.

" _Is it something I need to know about?"_

"Just need to right an old wrong."

Fury was silent for a moment.

" _Do what you need to and then get back to the carrier."_

Clint nodded.

"Should be back in a little over 24 hours."

" _I'll send a team to clean up your current location. Tell Romanoff not to let you do anything stupid."_

Clint rolled his eyes and hung up.

Natasha handed him his quiver – broken strap hanging loosely – and his bow.

"Ready?"

Clint nodded, accepting his Desert Eagle when she held it out to him. He brushed his finger across the safety, ensuring it was on, even as he slid the gun back into the holster on his thigh.

Together they headed for the nearest door. Clint held it open for Natasha to pass through first.

"I bet with the new jet we can make it to Greece in 12 hours flat."

Natasha rolled her eyes and muttered something in Russian about boys and their toys.

* * *

Natasha woke with a start, momentarily disoriented by the still unfamiliar interior structure of the new quinjets. She shook her head, rubbing her eyes tiredly before looking at her watch. She'd slept about four hours. She felt like she could sleep another four _teen_. "Exhausted" didn't even begin to cover how she felt right now.

The sudden sharp rumble in her stomach caught her by surprise. The moment she acknowledged the rumble, the ache of hunger that she'd been keeping buried at the back of her mind surged forward, morphing into an annoying stab of pain. Her body suddenly seemed keenly focused on reminding her that she hadn't eaten since…she frowned…since the night of the attack.

Her eyes shifted automatically to the cockpit where she could see Clint in the pilot's chair, right where she'd left him. She knew for a fact he hadn't eaten in just as long. They had barely left each other's side in the chaos of the last 20-odd hours.

Suddenly determined, she dug into her pack, fishing out a bag of her special 'Tasha Mix' Clint made for her and a handful of protein bars.

She climbed to her feet and headed for the cockpit.

Her initial assessment indicated Clint hadn't moved a muscle while she'd been sleeping. He was sitting almost stiffly in the pilot's seat, harness unbuckled and hanging from either side of the chair. He had one foot braced on the flight console, his left elbow braced on the arm rest and his chin resting in his hand as he gazed out into the dark night around them. His right hand, the middle finger and knuckle swollen and bruised, rested lightly on his thigh.

He had no iPod out, no headphones snaking up to his ears. He wasn't even tapping his fingers to a beat only he could hear. He was sitting in absolute silence and stillness.

After getting a look at his face as she slid into the co-pilot seat, she realized he probably didn't have the energy to do anything but sit and exist. His eyes were red-rimmed and slightly sunken with dark smudges painting the pale skin beneath them. When he blinked, his eye lids looked bruised and his eyes were so bloodshot it hurt  _hers_  to look at them.

He needed to sleep.

When  _her_  eyes had started drooping four hours ago – five hours into their flight – he'd very gently told her to go get some rest. She'd tried to get him to join her for a full ten minutes before giving up. Now that her own exhaustion wasn't weighing her down quite so heavily, she was prepared to do battle over that point _again_.

But first things first.

She tossed a protein bar in his direction, frowning when he didn't make a move to catch it, instead just tracked its progress with his gaze and watched it land on his lap.

"Eat that."

She wasn't really expecting a fight on this particular subject. Eating was practically one of Clint's favorite pastimes. Even so, she held her breath while she waited for a response. Clint wasn't in his most predictable state at the moment. For all she knew, he'd throw the offering right back at her.

She released the breath silently when after a long moment of staring down at the protein bar, his right hand finally moved to grab it. He kept his damaged – if she had to guess,  _broken_  – middle finger as straight as possible while he brought the bar to his mouth, tearing into the plastic wrapper with his teeth.

Because apparently raising his head out of his hand was too much to ask.

He shamelessly tore off a large chunk of the wrapper and spit it out, letting the plastic flutter to the floor of the jet to be forgotten. Natasha didn't waste breath scolding him – she was too relieved that he was obeying without protest. He used his teeth to shift the bar out of the opening he'd created and took a bite.

Satisfied for the moment, Natasha set the rest of the protein bars she'd brought on the console – well within his reach – and pulled open her Tasha Mix.

For several minutes they both ate quietly. Natasha got up again, retrieving two bottles of water from one of the storage areas. The water was practically lukewarm, but it was wet and it would get the job done.

She unscrewed the cap of one and held it out to Clint. He wrapped the working fingers of his right hand around it and took a sip. He frowned immediately, giving the bottle a scathing glare. She was sure he was about to let loose with some sarcastic quip about the tepid water. His lips even parted as he drew in a breath in preparation to do just that. But then he blew out the breath and sighed, reaching to set the bottle precariously on the console without comment.

Phil would have reamed him for that if he were here. She felt herself smile slightly – more likely, their handler would just recap the bottle or move it to a safer location without a word. He seemed to be constantly counteracting the tornado that was Clint.

The smile faded as quickly as it had come – the reason Phil wasn't here coming back to her all too quickly. She sighed and watched Clint's profile. He'd torn into another protein bar – spit another wrapper piece on the ground.

He still hadn't said anything – still looked like death warmed over.

"When was the last time you slept?"

Clint blinked almost lazily and tilted his head in his hand to look at her. His brow furrowed in thought for a moment.

"I slept the night of the attack."

Natasha's eyebrow arched.

"For all of two hours – that hardly counts."

Clint frowned almost petulantly.

"I think it counts."

"It doesn't – especially when  _that_  was…" she glanced at her watch, "twenty one hours ago. And you barely slept the night before that either."

Clint shrugged one shoulder and shifted his gaze back out the front window.

"Clint."

It was rare that she used a tone that could be termed "gentle" when it came to Clint. She wasn't a nurturer. She'd sooner snap at him to get some sleep so he didn't get sloppy when they went after Maskov than try to coax him into it.  _Gentle_  just wasn't one of her personality traits.

But he'd been through a  _lot_  in the last 24 hours. If there was ever a time for her to handle him carefully, it was now.

For a couple minutes he just continued to sit in silence, staring out into the night. Natasha waited. She wouldn't push him – only Phil pushed Clint. She'd come a long way in her relationship with her archer; but, if anyone other than his beloved handler pushed him, Clint tended to push back –  _hard_.

Finally, almost abruptly, he cleared his throat and lifted his head out of his hand.

"I can't sleep." He tossed her a sideways glance. "I tried while you were out but…" he shrugged and waved vaguely at his head.

Because  _that_  explained it all apparently.

Natasha blinked patiently at him, her gaze remaining expectant. She might not push him like Phil did, but she wasn't going to let him off  _that_  easy.

Clint shifted under her gaze and then glanced at her again. She barely held back a smirk when he rolled his eyes and sighed.

"I can't stop thinking about her."

Her. Brianna Williams.

Natasha's forehead creased sympathetically. She knew guilt. She felt it herself every time she thought of what she once was – of all the lives she took before Clint Barton crashed into her life.

But Clint had always taken his own guilt to heart – held it closer than she did. And he didn't let anyone share the burden. He talked through it with Phil as a coping mechanism, but he never really let himself off the hook.

He'd finally burned his ledger a few weeks ago trying to put those names to rest. He had  _just_  started trying to forgive himself for the choices he'd made back then. He'd  _just_  started trying to stop those names from haunting him.

Then Matthew Williams had attacked everything Clint cared about in the name of his dead daughter. And that ledger might as well be sitting in his hands right now for the weight she could see settled on his shoulders.

"What about her?" She asked softly, wondering what he'd tell her –  _if_  he'd tell her anything at all.

Clint rubbed his fingers across his jaw and kept his eyes trained on the black night around them.

"Her eyes."

The way he said it – the tone of his voice – she knew he was seeing those eyes right now. Brianna was haunting him, even while he was awake.

"She was so scared."

He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes wearily.

"I hated myself back then. Every breath I took, part of me wished it was my last. That night was one of the worst. She was so young, so  _innocent_ …and I slit her throat and didn't even flinch."

Natasha knew the feeling – knew how terrifying it was to take a life and realize you hadn't even hesitated.

"It was days like that I wished Barney's aim had been better, that I'd died in the mud and rain that day with his knife in my chest."

Natasha felt her breath catch in her throat as she listened. She watched him shake his head again, this time in a painfully familiar form of self-loathing. He tossed his half-eaten protein bar onto the console and let his head fall back against the headrest of his chair, his eyes falling closed.

"So  _weak_."

She barely heard the whispered self-recrimination, wondered if she'd even been meant to.

She wasn't sure what he was classifying as weak – his decision to be a killer or that in his lowest moments he'd wished he had never lived to  _make_  that decision. Maybe it was both.

He pulled his head away from the headrest and that action alone seemed to take monumental effort. His bloodshot gaze returned to the black night.

"I never even thought of walking away, of letting her live. It never even crossed my mind."

Natasha frowned slightly at the subtle subject shift, but let it go.

"What does that say about me?"

That was a landmine of a question if she'd ever heard one. What did it say? That he was a murderer. That a paycheck had meant more to him than that girl's life. That he hadn't cared.

But Clint  _had_  cared. Natasha knew that better than anyone. He had cared more than he even let  _himself_ know. That caring – kept buried so deep that Clint rarely acknowledged it – was the reason  _she_  was still alive.

"It says you were protecting yourself."

His eyebrow arched in an expression so dubious and  _familiar_  that she almost laughed. Or cried…it would have been a toss-up at this point. Instead, she kept her gaze serious.

"You were trapped on a path you didn't want to be on." His mouth opened to protest, but she stopped him with a sharp quirk in her eyebrow. "Through your own doing," she allowed, "but trapped all the same."

His brow furrowed as he tried to figure out where she was going with this.

"You couldn't walk away. You knew that. You'd made too many enemies and  _honestly,_  what else would you have done?"

Clint titled his head slightly, acknowledging the truth of her words.

"So you  _made_  yourself not care. You told yourself that over and over until you believed it was true because if you hadn't…" Natasha felt her own breath catch, just  _thinking_  about the lost, broken teenager she'd never even known. She could see an echo of that teenager in Clint's eyes now. "If you  _hadn't_ , there wouldn't have been anything left of you for Phil to save."

He would have driven himself to an emotional breakdown long before Phil Coulson had found him in that alley. Either he'd have let himself get killed, done the deed himself, or he'd have been so far gone nothing would have ever brought him back.

She should know. She'd done the exact same thing – convinced herself she didn't care until a blonde assassin with blue-gray eyes had looked at her and called 'bullshit.' Then he hadn't given her a choice  _but_ to care again.

He'd told her that  _feeling_  is what made them human – what made them the good guys.

She almost smiled at the memory. No one,  _no one_ , had ever been brave enough to stand toe-to-toe with her like Clint Barton tended to. He challenged her every day without flinching. He looked her in the eye when everyone else looked away. He called her on all her bullshit and had  _never_ , not once, looked at her with fear.

Feeling might be what kept him human, but  _he_  was what did it for her.

She looked down at her Tasha Mix and had to fight back a sudden swell of emotion. How had she survived before him? She couldn't even imagine trying to without him now.

She actually jumped when a hand suddenly covered hers, squeezing gently to get her to loosen her suddenly-deadly grip on the plastic bag.

"You're gonna kill your Tasha Mix with a grip like that."

She blinked and shook her head – unwilling to let the conversation turn, to let him make a joke and go back to hiding behind his wall.

"What would I have done if you had let that happen? If you hadn't kept yourself whole enough for Phil to save?"

His hand tightened suddenly, even his broken finger contracting. She knew he was imagining that possibility – a possibility that ended with either her  _dead_  or still lost in the world of contract assassins.

She knew that thought terrified him. Just like the idea of Phil failing to save  _him_  terrified her. They meant too much to each other now for thoughts like that to pass peacefully.

"Maybe it's selfish," she continued in a soft tone, "but by  _not_  caring when you were seventeen…you were there to  _care_  the day you met me." She met his eyes. "You were there to  _care_ about everyone else you've saved since."

She could practically see names flashing through his mind – not of people he'd killed this time, but of people he'd saved.

"It doesn't make it okay. It doesn't mean you forget the people like Brianna." He visibly flinched at the name. "But you  _can't_  take it back, Clint." His jaw clenched tightly at that painful truth and she had to force herself to go on. "All you can do is put your head down, fight the good fight and do whatever you can to make it right and just…" she sighed, "hope it's enough."

"But it's  _not_  enough." He countered quietly. "It could never  _be_  enough."

" _That_ ," she squeezed his hand carefully, "that right there…that's what makes you the good guy."

His expression broke momentarily, as if the thought of him being  _good_  was too much to accept right now. Her heart pulled painfully. He didn't even  _know –_ had no idea – what he was to people like her, to people like Phil and Moreau and everyone else he'd saved over the years. In Clint's mind he would always be the villain of his own story. He would always be working towards redemption he didn't really believe he could achieve.

"It's supposed to hurt, Clint. You're supposed to feel guilty. Welcome to the human race, remember?"

He blinked, eyes flying to her at the familiar phrase. Natasha felt the corner of her mouth tug upwards.

"No returns, no exchanges. Comes complete with feelings and emotions – the good," she squeezed his hand again, " _and_  the bad."

Clint's own mouth quirked in a shadow of his usual smirk.

"Sounds familiar."

Natasha's fledgling smile grew into a real one.

"You should listen. The guy that said it's pretty smart."

Clint scoffed and his smirk was suddenly out in full force.

"He's a  _genius_."

Natasha huffed a slight laugh. The cocky bravado was familiar, comforting. She kept her smile as warm as she could manage.

"He's also one of the best men I know – and needs to remember that."

Clint's eyebrow twitched and he sighed, his hand tightening around hers.

"Careful, you keep feeding my ego like that and there won't be any room left for you on the jet."

Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Remind me to knock you down a peg in our next sparring match then."

Clint snorted.

"I think you're forgetting who won our  _last_  sparring match."

Natasha laughed as sarcastically as she could manage.

"You're gonna let that one little victory go to your head? Make that  _two_  pegs I need to take you down next time."

Clint rolled his eyes and reached for his abandoned protein bar, shoving all that remained of it into his mouth. He was forced to open his mouth  _very_  wide as he chewed and Natasha made a sound of protest.

"You're disgusting!"

"Y' s'y tha' like i's d' firs' time you re'lized it."

"God, Clint – chew first, talk  _later_."

Clint chuckled, taking a little too much pleasure at her disgust. She was so relieved to hear the sound, she didn't immediately smack him for being an idiot.

* * *

Gerard Maskov shuffled into his kitchen with a yawn. He rubbed at his eyes, grimacing as the late-morning light filtered through the kitchen window. He pulled open the refrigerator and leaned over, staring at the contents.

The back of his neck prickled, and all at once, he realized he wasn't alone. A low voice tisked from somewhere behind him.

"You've slept half your day away, Maskov."

Gerard slowly stood, pulled his bathrobe closer around his body and turned.

"Is that any way for a responsible businessman to behave?"

A man and a woman.

The woman was beautiful – the kind of woman Gerard would normally pursue. This was the kind of woman that drew every eye when she walked into a room. Even the red, angry scrape on her cheek, the cut on her brow, and the bruises painting her skin did nothing to detract from her beauty. But the icy disgust in her gaze told him any attempts at flirtation would be flatly rebuffed – maybe even met with violence.

She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the door jam with her arms folded across her chest. It took Gerard a moment to draw his eyes away from that chest and to the room's other occupant.

The man was less remarkable than his counterpart. He was shorter than average height, maybe 5' 8" or 5' 9". While good looking – Gerard supposed – he wouldn't turn heads like his companion did. And the bruises and cuts on his face did nothing but make him look more intimidating – even though the man appeared casual and relaxed where he leaned back against the counter.

It was the black bow in the man's hand, though, that drew his attention and kept it.

The man smirked, shifting the bow so he held it in front of him – all but showcasing it.

"Something niggling in your brain there, Maskov?"

"Who are you?"

The man looked over his shoulder at the woman.

"Nobody ever remembers me. I'd be offended if…you know...it wasn't how I kept from being dead."

"At least every time people meet you it's like it's the first time." The woman shrugged.

The man tilted his head like she had a point.

"Endless first impressions…could be worse."

Gerard looked back and forth between them in confusion.

"Who  _are_  you?" He demanded for a second time.

The man looked back at him with a sarcastically shocked expression.

"Really? The bow didn't do it for you?" All traces of humor faded from the archer's expression. "How about the name Brianna Williams? That jog anything in that steel trap of yours?"

Gerard frowned. Brianna Williams. That had been so long ago – more than seven years. He eyed the bow again – and suddenly he remembered.

"Hawkeye."

"Give the man a prize." The words were humorous, but the voice lacked the tone to match.

"Why are you here? I paid you and we were done."

"Not quite." The man's tone was conversational, but everything from his stance to his expression screamed 'predator'. "You paid a seventeen year old to do your dirty work and you actually thought you could just walk away?"

Gerard arched an eyebrow, eyes shifting to the drawer next to his sink, where he knew a handgun was hidden.

"I believe that's exactly what I did."

He shifted his eyes away from the drawer, frowning when he saw the woman holding a gun –  _his_  gun – up for him to see.

"Looking for this?" She was practically purring and if Gerard weren't growing more concerned for his life by the moment, he might have let it turn him on.

"You've been a naughty boy, Maskov. Ordering hits on twenty-year-old girls who haven't done anything is a big no-no." Hawkeye set his bow on the counter, shaking his head mockingly.

The woman handed the gun to the archer, who took it, chambered a round and aimed it calmly at Gerard's head.

Gerard scoffed, hardly believing this was happening.

"You're a contract man – you got your money. I got my problem taken care of. End of story."

" _What_  problem could she have been to you?" Maskov nearly took a step back from the sudden rage in Hawkeye's eyes.

"Not her – her father."

The archer frowned.

"Her father?"

"He and I were… _business_  partners. Then the son of a bitch got greedy and needed to be taught a lesson."

The Hawkeye's frown deepened and the woman behind him mirrored the expression.

"What does it matter to  _you,_ anyway?"

The archer tilted his head suddenly to the side, his eyes growing dark and hard.

"You know, you're  _right_." There was sarcasm in his expression, but there was a deadly darkness hidden just below the surface that made Gerard swallow in abrupt fear. "It  _doesn't_  matter."

Gerard saw the moment the assassin decided the conversation was over. He watched the muscles in his hand contract and had a single moment to imagine his finger squeezing against the trigger.

Clint watched Maskov's head snap back and his eyes followed the body as it crumbled to the floor.

Then it was over – just like that. He wanted  _so,_  so badly to put an arrow through the man's heart – a warning to the rest of the people like him that Hawkeye was still out there and that he was watching. But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't let this be tied to him, to SHIELD. He hadn't even brought his quiver with him, removing the temptation all together.

"This all came back to Williams." Natasha shook her head as she stepped up to his shoulder, looking down at the body.

"Yeah, well…" Clint sighed, "we knew the contract had to have been issued for a reason."

"But Williams was in bed with this guy. He was betraying SHIELD long before any of  _this_."

Clint shook his head. He couldn't quite believe it either. He wondered if this was information he should pass on to Fury. Though…that would mean admitting he was here.

He shook his head again.

"It doesn't matter now."

It was surreal. After everything, after  _seven_  years of checking his back for a knife courtesy of the Council, it was done. Williams and everything tying him and Brianna to Clint was gone – everything but the memories.

Natasha's hand slid around his, gently pulling the gun from his grasp. She grabbed a dishcloth from the edge of the sink and rubbed both of their fingerprints off the gun. Carefully, she set it on the counter.

"You okay?" She came to stand directly in front of him, staring up into his eyes.

He'd just killed an unarmed man in cold blood, without orders.

But  _killing_  had never really been the issue for him – which was scary enough to be disturbing if he let himself think about it too long. It was the  _reasoning._  The reason he had to kill them. That's where he'd always gotten tripped up.

Clint had made it a habit – back in his contract days – to know whatever there was to know about the men and women that hired him. It had been insurance, a way to make sure he got paid. It also meant he knew about most of Gerard Maskov's dirty deeds from before he'd signed the dotted line with Clint.

"I'm not gonna lose any sleep over this one, Tasha. The way I see it, this one had been livin' on borrowed time for all the shit he'd done."

Natasha nodded, accepting his reply and sighed wearily.

Clint watched her for a moment – watching her glance around the kitchen, no doubt cataloging everything they needed to wipe down before they left. He felt the corner of his lips turn up in a small affectionate grin.

 _This_  woman – what had he  _done_  before her?

Without warning, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. Her arms came around his waist immediately in response and she turned her head, resting her cheek against his collarbone and turning her face into his neck. She sighed again, and he felt some of the tension leave her body.

"Thank you – for being here."

Her arms tightened around his waist briefly.

"You don't have to thank me – not for being where I belong."

Clint felt warmth spread through his chest and he smiled again. He drew in a deep breath and let it out.

"All right," he turned his head, pressing a quick kiss into Natasha's forehead, "let's get this shit done and go home."

* * *

End of Chapter Nine

Brianna Williams is one of those names that will always haunt Clint - but that's what makes him the archer we know and love. If it DIDN'T haunt him, that would mean he WAS the sociopath Williams accused him of being.

And yeah, Clint didn't have orders to kill Mascov...but nobody has to know about that ;D He did it for Brianna, that's all that really matters to him.

If I get down on my knees and beg, will you comment? Cuz I'll do it - really I will...do you want to force me that low? huh? DO YOU? :D

And your preview

* * *

_Startled voices of protest suddenly rose from somewhere outside of his door and Phil found himself smiling slightly in anticipation, his eyes going to the window that showed him the hallway._

_Sure enough, seconds later, his favorite archer came stalking into view._

_Clint's eyes found his through the window only to break contact a moment later as he practically ripped open the door._

_"Clint…"_


	10. Some Nights I Wish This All Would End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to those who commented on Chapter 9: RoS13 and indynerdgirl
> 
> Thank you to Kylen for her beta-powers. Again, anything that comes out of Dan's mouth is from her lol
> 
> This story is dedicated to Kylen
> 
> On to Chapter Ten...

  
_If a man can bridge the gap between life and death, if he can live on after he's dead, then maybe he was a great man._   
_**James Dean** _   


* * *

Natasha had been dozing in her copilot seat while Clint munched on another protein bar when a loud, slightly obnoxious cartoon voice suddenly broke the silence of the jet.

" _Ehhhh…What's up, Doc? What's cookin'?"_

Natasha blinked in confusion.

"Bugs Bunny," Clint explained as he dug the phone out of his pocket. Natasha still looked confused – the poor, sheltered little Russian assassin.

" _What's up, Doc? Oh, you're lookin'…For Bugs Bunny bunting…"_

"I'll explain later."

" _Elmer's gone a-hunting, just to get a rabbit skin…"_

"It's Wilson."

Clint already knew that before ever looking at the screen. That was the point of personalized ring-tones. Still, he stared at the name as if he were frozen in place.

He knew he should answer. He  _had_  told the doctor to call him when Phil woke up. But he was suddenly petrified that Wilson was calling because something had gone wrong, because Phil wasn't okay anymore.

" _Oops! The rabbit's gone again!"_

"He told you he'd be fine." Natasha's tone was somehow firm and gentle at the same time. He wasn't sure how she managed a tone like that.

" _What's up, Doc? What's cookin'?"_

"Clint."

He braced himself and slid his finger across the screen – bringing it to his ear.

"Barton."

He knew Wilson knew who he'd called – Clint didn't need to identify himself. But in moments of overwhelming emotion – emotion like fear – he tended to fall back to habitual behavior. It was one of his 'coping mechanisms,' if the SHIELD shrink was to be taken seriously.

" _Hey, kid."_

For a very short moment, Clint was confused. Everything in his consciousness had been preparing to hear Wilson's voice. So when a voice that was distinctly  _not_  Wilson came over the line, his brain took a fraction of a second to recover from the shock. Once that happened, he put a name to the voice that was possibly even more familiar to him than his own.

"Phil."

Before he could check himself, he'd laid every emotion that had been trying to overwhelm him for the last thirty something hours into that one word – fear, pain, anger, self-loathing, affection and the recently-developed  _relief_.

"God  _damn_  it, it's good to hear your voice, man."

Another voice – this time it  _was_  Wilson came across the line.

" _You're on speaker, Barton. Your stubborn ass of a handler insisted on talking to you himself even though he can't even manage to hold the phone to his damn head right now."_

Clint nodded and huffed a slight laugh. Stubborn? Phil? That was just  _crazy_.

" _I'll give you guys two minutes. Then he's getting sedated and you and I are gonna talk, Barton."_

"Understood."

There was a shuffling and Clint heard a door open and then close again. He couldn't hold back a sigh as he scrubbed a hand tiredly across his face.

" _You okay?"_

Trust Phil to be lying on what had almost been his death bed and to be worried about  _Clint_. It was so familiar and classic  _Phil_  that Clint couldn't help but grin.

"I'm fine. I'm not the one that got shot." Clint ignored the sudden spike of pain that shot down his spine, almost as if it flared in response to his claim. He shifted in his seat and went on before Phil could call him on it as easily as his own body had. "And you went for the hat trick at that. You know if you wanted me out of the infirmary spot light so badly, there are better ways to do it – less  _dramatic_ ways. If I didn't kn – "

" _Clint."_

Clint stuttered to a stop at the interruption, feeling his shoulders slump even though Phil wasn't there to see it. He should have known Phil would see the sudden fast talk for what it was – a bullshit defense mechanism.

" _Are you okay?"_

And Clint suddenly realized they weren't talking about anything physical. Phil knew him – knew him better than  _anyone_. Phil knew what the last 30-odd hours had been like for him. Hell, the man had been on Clint's side of a situation like this too many times before. He knew about the fear, the pain, the absolute, unfiltered terror that the most important person in your world was going to be ripped away from you.

Clint braced his elbow back on the armrest and turned his mouth into his palm – scrambling to pull back on the emotions that were suddenly deciding to attempt an escape. He scrubbed his hand up his face and into his hair. He squeezed his eyes closed and forced himself to respond. The longer he waited, the more worried Phil would get.

"I'm fine, Phil."

Clint huffed a fractured laugh. He wouldn't even believe  _himself_  sounding like that – like the only thing holding him together was pure force of will.

Though, to be fair, that was probably all that  _was_  holding him together. Phil didn't need to know that, though. Phil just needed to focus on getting better. Clint could figure his own shit out for once.

The line was quiet for a very long moment – long enough that Clint started to wonder if Phil had fallen asleep. But just before he called out, his handler spoke – his tone calm and soothing.

" _I'm gonna be okay, Clint."_

Clint clenched his jaw so tightly, his teeth ached.

"You sure?" It was out before Clint could stop it. It sounded so damn needy and terrified, Clint suddenly felt all of eighteen again – when he was lost and scared and slowly realizing that Phil Coulson was his saving grace.

" _I promise."_

Clint nodded and forced himself to take a deep, albeit shaky, breath. It was past time for him to pull his shit together and that meant turning the conversation away from all this emotional crap.

"Natasha and I are on our way back now and I promise to sneak you in some real food first thing."

Phil allowed the subject change with no argument. Probably knew exactly where Clint and Natasha had been without having to be told.

" _Good luck. They seem to run a tight ship around here."_

Clint chuckled wearily.

"Did you just make a boat joke  _on_ a boat?"

" _You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."_

Clint rolled his eyes and felt an honest-to-god grin pull at his lips.

"You should get some rest, Phil…you sound like shit."

And he  _did_. Phil sounded exhausted with a side of beat to hell. Almost on cue, Clint heard the door on the other end of the line open and close again. Dan's voice filtered over the line for a second time.

" _I gave you_ _ **three**_ _minutes. Now, Phil promised to be a good patient, Barton – keep that for future reference, will you? – and take his meds. I'm going to let the nurse take over and head out into the hall. That okay with you two?"_

Clint smirked. Like either of them had an option to disagree.

"I love how you ask questions like you're actually giving a choice, Wilson."

" _Yeah, well, considering Serene already has the meds in Phil's IV port, I figured you'd both say yes. Sleep tight, Phil."_

Clint didn't get a chance to say anything else before he heard the door opening and closing again. He rubbed his right hand across the back of his neck, wincing when his broken finger bumped the headrest.

"That the same Serene I love to hate so much?"

The phone clicked off speaker and Wilson's voice became clearer.

" _One and the same. We're a little short-handed right now with the staff you two know, and I wanted you in familiar hands."_

Clint nodded. He appreciated that, but it didn't mean he still didn't believe  _Serene_  was a crayon or two short of a full box when it came to talking to humans.

"So he sounded…well, not exactly  _good_ …but not completely terrible. He's still doing okay?"

He wished he didn't need the reassurance – but it had been a long 36 hours.

" _Relax, Barton. We're well past that 12-hour threshold. So long as no one puts this flying crate down with another attack, I think he's out of the woods."_

Speaking of attacks…

"Things settling down around there?"

The last time he'd been on board "chaos" hadn't really seemed to cover it.

Wilson sighed, and Clint could picture the man running a hand through his hair.

" _Settle down? Kid, I don't think this crate can ever be called settled. We're maintaining the status quo, how about that? We've treated all of the critical patients. Of the 35 flown here in that first wave, 33 made it. Bad news: 15 or 20 that_ _ **could**_ _have made it, didn't get flown out fast enough_ _. As far as I know, they all died in the LZ. And we won't even get into all the people triaged off or that never made it to the RV."_ Wilson paused for a moment and Clint could imagine him shaking his head.

" _Fury sent a relief team to get Bryan's trainees off the base, so they've stood down. Everyone still alive from the New York base is now on the Helicarrier, along with an ungodly amount of other people that flew in."_ Wilson sighed. _"Medical staff have been rotating out for hour-long naps for the last 10 hours. I'm due for another turn in about an hour."_ He took a breath. _"Just in case you were going to ask me about sleeping. Because no, there are not a surplus of beds at the moment."_

Clint blinked, taking in the long explanation. Wilson sounded…just not exactly  _Wilson_. They were his words – everything Clint would expect him to say but…

"You okay, Wilson?"

There was a beat of silence, and then a huff of amusement.

" _That's supposed to be_ _ **my**_ _question, kid."_

Clint smirked, glancing over to where Natasha had started dozing again in her seat and then resting his head back against his headrest.

"I asked you first."

This time the silence dragged on a little longer. When Wilson finally answered, his  _tone_ …

" _I haven't seen anything like this in too many years to count, Barton._ _And even then, it wasn't like the medic units were primary targets."_  Dan's voice lowered a notch.  _"Serene's on this case because of the nurses on staff in New York, three were killed with that damned grenade. We lost another when we got here...bled out in surgery. And three orderlies died before they ever made it to the RV. And that's just the serious injuries. It's literally last man standing around here right now. Of the staff we had on the ground, maybe four…no, five of us are up and around."_

" _Jesus_ , Wilson…" Clint didn't know what else to say. He hadn't realized – hadn't had time to ask – when the report had come through that the infirmary was compromised. Everything had started happening really fast and it had been all he could do just to keep moving forward.

A sudden horrible thought struck him. With so many dead…

"Braxton?"

There was a beat of silence.

" _Should've known you'd ask, and I'm sorry I didn't say it straight out. She's fine. I'm sure you'll find this amusing, but she was asleep in my quarters when this all started."_

Clint released a relieved breath. Maybe if he wasn't so damn exhausted he could find the energy to make a comment with the intent of making Dan blush. As it was…

"Damn, Wilson…just… _damn_."

Wilson let loose a ragged sigh.

" _Yeah, well…I'm still here and still standing. That'll have to be enough."_

Clint shook his head, letting it roll back and forth on the headrest. He was really getting tired of having to settle for "it'll have to be enough." It was the story of his goddamned life these days.

"So now what? What's the word for the higher ups? Has the shit about Williams come down the grapevine yet?"

" _I don't know, kid, and honestly, I don't care. Right now, all that's being said is the threat has been neutralized and there's no reason to believe 'another attack is imminent.' So…we run with that. Now…what about you and Romanoff?"_

Clint sighed before he could stop himself.

"Would it cause you undue panic if I told you I didn't even know what day it was?" He frowned. "That might be the time change though."

Jumping forward ten hours, spending some time there, and then jumping _back_  six hours did a number on your internal clock.

What started out as a light chuckle turned into a rolling laugh.

" _No, Barton, because_ _ **I**_ _don't know what day it is."_  There was a pause.  _"Okay, my watch says April 18, 1:49 p.m. How about yours?"_

Clint looked down, frowning when his watch wasn't on his wrist where it should have been.

"I'd tell you if I knew where the hell my watch was."

If he had to guess, it was buried in glass in Williams' living room.

Dan laughed again.

" _Why am I not surprised? Now quit stalling, Barton. How are you and Romanoff?"_

Clint glanced down at his broken finger, and felt a spike of pain in his back.

"Tasha took some knocks, but she's fine – sleeping actually…" Natasha's suddenly waving hand countered that point and he smiled. "Kinda, at least. I'm fine too."

He should have known he wouldn't get away with that.

" _I know you, Barton. That's not an answer."_

Clint scowled. Wilson was just as bad as Phil sometimes with this whole mother-hen thing.

"I took some knocks, too." He admitted it grudgingly. His back spasmed in pain briefly, almost as a testament to that fact. He ignored it in favor of glaring down at his broken finger again. "I broke a finger."

" _You…broke a finger."_  Wilson's voice rang with incredulity.

"Yeah." Clint answered simply. He waited a beat. "I might have fallen through a skylight, too."

This time Wilson heaved a full sigh.

" _How long ago did that happen? And how far out are you?"_

"It was…" Clint glanced at a watch that he was instantly reminded wasn't there, "I dunno…maybe 24 hours ago?" He looked at the GPS. "We're two hours out."

" _And you're still awake and moving? No numbness – anything like that?"_

"No – no numbness."

He was afraid if he admitted to any of the  _actual_  pain he was decidedly ignoring, he wouldn't be able to decidedly ignore it anymore. He just needed to keep moving for a couple more hours – until he saw Phil.

Dan was silent for a moment.

" _There's a whole list of things I should have Romanoff do to you right now, Barton."_ Clint smirked suddenly. _"And_ _ **no**_ _comments from the peanut gallery. Get your ass back here so we can get you checked out."_

"I'm not doing anything until I see Phil."

There was more ice in his tone than Wilson deserved, but this wasn't a point he was willing to negotiate.

" _Oh for fuck's sake…_ _ **fine**_ **.** _You're breaking all the rules anyhow."_

Clint sighed, relieved he didn't have to argue about it. He didn't know if he had the energy to be anything but pissed if that had come to an actual verbal sparring match.

"That  _is_  what I do best."

Or so everyone seemed to enjoy telling him.

" _Yeah, tell me about it. Just…call if you need anything, okay?"_

Basically don't pass out until Wilson was there to catch him. Got it.

"See you in a few hours."

Clint tossed his phone onto the console with a sigh, letting his head fall back against the headrest again. He stared at the roof of the jet for a long moment, remembering the sound of Phil's voice. Some of the tension that had been settled in his shoulders for so long that he'd gotten used to it, slowly bled away – leaving him even more drained and exhausted than before.

"Think you can sleep now?"

Clint opened his eyes – he didn't remember closing them – and rolled his head on the headrest to look at his fiery spider. She'd only asked him one other time since they'd started their return flight. He'd just shaken his head sharply and checked his phone for what felt like the millionth time. She hadn't pushed, had seemed to understand that he wasn't ready to stand down yet.

But now he'd talked to Phil. Now he'd done everything he could to make it right with Brianna's memory. Now he should be able to sleep. But something in his mind rejected the idea.

Maybe it was that he hadn't actually  _seen_  Phil yet. Maybe it was because the last time he  _had_  seen him, the man had been bleeding and unconscious. Maybe it was because every time he let his thoughts wander, Brianna's terrified eyes were suddenly all he could think about.

He couldn't do it. Couldn't let his guard down in the way sleeping would require – couldn't leave his consciousness unprotected yet. Dreaming of Brianna he could handle.

Well…

Mostly handle.

But Phil…Clint didn't want to open himself up to dreaming about his handler getting gunned down. About him maybe  _not_  surviving. About 'bleeding and unconscious' being the last time he ever saw him. That he  _couldn't_  handle – not until he had the actual sight of Phil alive and awake to fight back with.

"Clint?"

He blinked and pulled his head away from the headrest abruptly, looking out into the blue sky around them.

"No – not yet."

"Clint." She had her 'convincing' tone now, the one she used to persuade him to doing something he didn't want to do. He was proud to say he could usually withstand it.

Well…

He could  _sometimes_  withstand it.

If he was feeling particularly stubborn.

Which he was.

"Not yet." His words were sharp – clearly showing that he was fully prepared to dig his heels in and battle this one out with her.

She sighed deeply and he could almost hear the fight drain out of her.

"Fine."

Clint felt a shot of guilt and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked so tired and worried and bruised and generally just ready for all of this to be over. Clint felt his own shoulders droop. He hadn't meant to kick her while she was already down.

"I just need to see him. I'll get some sleep after that, I  _swear_ , but I  _need_  to see him first, okay?"

Her weary green eye shifted to his and softened. Then she nodded. She understood – she usually did. Why she put up with the minefield he called his emotions, he would never know.

As a peace offering – and maybe because after everything that had happened in the last 36 hours, he found himself in the rare state of actually _wanting_  some form of comfort – Clint shifted his right hand out to hover in the small space between their seats, palm up and waiting.

A moment later her hand slid into his. Her fingers tightened around his hand and she sighed again, letting her head fall back against her head rest with her eyes closed. Clint tightened his grip as well and turned his gaze back to the blue sky.

Two more hours – two more hours and he could finally start accepting that this nightmare was over.

* * *

Phil shifted slightly in his bed, hand moving to brace against his chest briefly. The twinge of pain faded away and he sighed. He was sitting up in bed – well, he was propped on several pillows and the bed had been shifted into a  _very_  slight incline – trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep.

Clint would be back any minute. Dan had brought word that his and Natasha's jet was inbound ten minutes ago. Knowing Clint, as soon as he'd signed the jet back into the hands of the hangar crew, he'd be making a bee-line for the infirmary.

And God help anyone who tried to slow him down.

Startled voices of protest suddenly rose from somewhere outside of his door and Phil found himself smiling slightly in anticipation, his eyes going to the window that showed him the hallway.

Sure enough, seconds later, his favorite archer came stalking into view.

Clint's eyes found his through the window only to break contact a moment later as he practically ripped open the door.

"Clint…"

It was all Phil could manage to get out before Clint took two long strides to the side of his bed. The archer's knee folded under him as he braced it on the mattress and wrapped his arms around Phil's shoulders in the closest version of a bear hug he could get without causing Phil pain or disrupting any of the equipment surrounding him.

Caught completely by surprise by the initiation of physical contact, all Phil could do at first was bring his arms up automatically to wrap around Clint in return. He expected the hug to end as quickly as it had started, but it didn't.

For several long moments, Clint remained right where almost  _clinging_ to him. Phil heard the archer's uneven breaths and felt the near hitch rise in Clint's back. Feeling his own throat tighten, Phil shifted one hand to grip the back of Clint's neck – a familiar method of offering comfort that had worked many times in the past.

The archer's breath hitched again and for a moment, his arms tightened around Phil's shoulders.

"You scared the  _shit_  outta me."

The words were meant for his ears alone – though there was really no one around to eavesdrop – that much was obvious by the low tone in which they were spoken. The sheer level of emotion that bled into those simple words had Phil tightening his grip on the back of Clint's neck.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Clint huffed, pulling back and sitting on his bent leg. He shook his head, keeping his face down turned and his eyes hidden.

"Did you get shot on purpose?" The archer scrubbed a hand across his face and went on before Phil could decide if that was meant to be rhetorical or not. "Then why the hell are you apologizing?"

Phil made a wry face because,  _seriously_ , he'd be rich if he had a nickel for every time  _Clint_  had apologized for scaring _him_. Phil let it slide though and carefully watched the top of Clint's head, waiting for the archer to face him.

Finally, Clint seemed to pull himself together enough to raise his gaze.

"This whole bedside vigil shit isn't my thing. You don't get to do this ever again, got that?"

Phil arched an eyebrow – only to wince when the action pulled against the bullet crease on the side of his head. Clint suddenly frowned deeply and Phil quickly breathed away the pain, and then scrambled to deflect the worry rising quickly in the archer's eyes.

"Bedside vigil? You  _just_  got here."

Clint paled abruptly, guilt sprouting in his eyes almost immediately. Phil reached out and gripped his forearm.

"That's not what I meant." He assured firmly. "It was a bad joke."

Clint nodded, but still looked pale.

That was when Phil's – admittedly slightly scrambled – brain suddenly took in all that his eyes were seeing.

Small cuts scattered across Clint's face, deep bruises painting the skin in various places. Dark, bruise like half circles had taken up residence under both his eyes, which for their part were both red rimmed and bloodshot. His expression was drawn and exhausted – more exhausted than Phil had ever seen it.

His forearm under Phil's hand was covered in cuts and scrapes, some angry, red, and slightly swollen. His middle finger on his right hand was colored in deep purples and blues and was nearly twice the size it should have been. His black t-shirt was torn in several places, dark, stiff stains discoloring it slightly.

Most noticeable, though, was the way he was sitting. Stiff was never a word Phil would use to describe Clint. But that's how he was holding himself – stiffly. Like allowing his back to bend was too painful of a prospect to even attempt.

Clint shifted suddenly, drawing his arm out of Phil's grasp and he knew he'd been caught staring. Better to just fess up and move forward than try to play it off.

"You look like shit, kid."

Clint scoffed in real amusement.

"Seriously?  _I_ look like shit? You're one to talk, Mr. Trifecta of bullet holes."

"I want Dan to check you out."

"He will." Clint assured calmly, though he made no move to leave.

"I meant now."

"I'll get to it." Clint promised.

Phil opened his mouth to demand Clint 'get to it' right the hell  _now_ , but the words died on his lips. Clint was looking at him like he was suddenly terrified that if he looked away, Phil would disappear on him.

All at once, he knew he wouldn't get Clint to leave any time soon. How many times had  _he_  been sitting where Clint was now – bearing the same fear and refusing to move with the same resolve? He couldn't make him leave, not until those fears settled.

Maybe he could help the process along though. He reached for his bed controls, slowly lowering the bed back to a completely flat position. He remained propped on pillows, but the angle was much more conducive to a nap.

"Tired?" Clint asked, shifting off the bed into a nearby chair – the same chair that Dan or Todd occupied when they visited.

Phil nodded, surprised by the yawn that snuck up on him to prove the point.

"Where's Natasha?"

"She volunteered to handle the post-flight check list."

Phil nodded, a small smile quirking his lips. Natasha hated the flight check lists with a passion. She made sure that job fell to Clint every opportunity she got. Her volunteering spoke to the mess Clint must have been over this.

Phil settled back into his pillows, watching Clint shift uncomfortably in the chair. He realized for the first time that the archer's bow and quiver were missing. He opened his mouth to ask, but then stopped when Clint hid a nearly painful-looking yawn behind his fist.

He'd ask later.

He felt his own eyes drift closed and absently wondered how long it would take Clint to follow his example and get some sleep. Because Phil was absolutely certain that was one thing the archer hadn't gotten since this mess started.

* * *

Clint watched Phil's breathing even out and he knew his handler was asleep. The weight that had been bearing down on him ever since he' d turned to see Phil lying in his own blood finally melted away completely.

He blew out a deep breath and leaned back in the chair, only to wince and shift when the position put pressure on his aching back. He shifted forward, folding his arms on the edge of Phil's mattress and resting his cheek on them, watching the slow rise and fall of Phil's chest.

His back didn't like this position any better than the last – the chair was a little too far away to be comfortable even on his best day – but he suddenly didn't have the energy to move again. So he stayed where he was, listening to the steady, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.

He hardly noticed when the rest of the world faded away and all he remained aware of was that steady beep. He blinked slowly, having to work a little harder each time to force his eyes open again.

Finally, he gave up on that battle – about the same time even the beeping faded away.

* * *

Dan glanced through the viewing window to Phil's room as he headed for the door. He allowed himself a small smile as he took in the sight of the two agents and then he slipped silently into the room.

Phil was asleep – from the drugs or his own free will, it didn't matter. He was gone from the world for the moment.

More surprisingly, so was Barton.

He was all but collapsed forward against Phil's mattress, head pillowed on his arms, back hunched a bit awkwardly out of the chair that was just a little too far away from the bed. Remembering the archer's admittance to a free fall through a skylight, Dan moved closer.

The back of Barton's shirt was a mess – nothing but sliced-up fabric with dark stains surrounding the cuts. He hoped to hell there was no glass in there that he'd have to dig out. There was tension bunched in the broad muscles – even in sleep – though Dan wondered if that wasn't to be expected after everything that had happened.

He hated to wake him – especially since couldn't have been asleep for more than fifteen minutes – but he had to get him checked out. Because knowing Barton, he was hurt worse than he seemed or admitted.

Blowing out a breath, he crouched next to Barton's chair and reached to tap the archer's knee.

Every single muscle in the kid's body visibly tensed. His head shot up and he half rose out of his chair, leaning towards Phil.

"Easy, Barton." Dan kept a hold on the knee he'd tapped and pressed the kid back into the chair. "Everything's fine." He kept his voice low, a soothing whisper like he was talking to a startled, wounded…well…Barton.

The archer all but collapsed back into the chair, head snapping around to face him in confusion.

"I just wanna get you out of here for a lookover."

Barton blinked blearily, obviously struggling to shake off the sleep he desperately needed.

"'M fine." He finally insisted – though the slight slur wasn't exactly comforting. "Wanna stay with Phil."

Dan rolled his eyes.

"Cut me a break, kid. I know you haven't slept in at  _least_  the last 36 hours but I didn't forget about your free fall through a skylight, either. Sleeping like this won't do you any favors." He made sure to keep his voice low and soothing. "He's not going anywhere, Barton, and he'd kill me if I didn't at least check you out."

That seemed to do the trick. Barton's lips quirked tiredly.

"He'd kill us both."

Slowly – as if he were a ninety-year-old man – Barton started to push himself up from the chair. Then – like he'd been hit with an unexpected blow – he bodily flinched, every muscle in his back seeming to lock up in a painful mass. His mouth dropped open in a silent cry of pain and he staggered back a step, feet getting tangled in the chair and an arm windmilling in an attempt to find his balance.

Dan was sure he would have gone down in a tangle of limbs and plastic chair legs if he hadn't been able to get a hand on Barton's bicep. As soon as he was sure Barton wasn't going to go down anyway, Dan wrapped his other arm around Barton's lower back, hooking his fingers in the kid's belt loops. Then he pulled him away from the bed and towards the door.

Every muscle in the kid's body seemed to lock up in response to whatever was happening and by the time they made it through the door, Barton's legs were betraying him and he was going to his knees.

Dan allowed the descent and crouched with him, keeping the supporting hand on his bicep and the arm around his back.

"Tell me what's going on, Barton."

Outward displays of pain were about as common from Barton as love ballads. It wasn't something he let the world see. That meant this was bad – whatever it was – but the positive side of that was that it was unlikely Clint would try to lie to him now.

One of the few perks of the walking contradiction that was Clint Barton.

Sure enough, after sucking in a few painful-sounding breaths, he ground out a response.

"My back."

Not all that informative – but it was a start. Barton's right hand was braced in front of him, fingers pressing painfully into the floor. And  _there_  was the broken finger Barton had mentioned.

"Lie down." Dan eased the archer down and helped him shift so his back was flat against the ground. His knees remained bent, boots braced on the floor. "Stretch out your legs and control your breathing."

Even as he said it he pressed a hand against Barton's nearest knee, urging him to straighten out. Surprisingly, Barton didn't even put up a token resistance. He just clenched his jaw and blew out a pained breath as he tried to obey the directive. Slowly – and after what seemed like an extremely taxing effort – he managed to straighten his legs completely.

Dan shifted his hand to Barton's shoulder.

"Control that breathing, Barton." He waited for the archer to draw in and blow out a few deep breaths. "Now – tell me what you're feeling."

Barton grimaced in sudden pain, but forced the expression off his face a moment later.

"Hurts." He ground out through tightly clenched teeth.

"Yeah, I kinda figured." Dan replied impatiently.

Barton seemed to hear the impatience and swallowed, one of his hands shifting vaguely to gesture at his lower back.

"Lower back."

Now they were getting somewhere.

"Scale of one to ten, Barton. You know the drill."

Barton swallowed thickly.

"Nine and three quarters." Barton's lips quirked into a sudden smirk – and though it was a far cry from Barton's normal version of the expression, Dan understood the attempt. He chuckled, allowing Barton the momentary deflection.

"Do I look like a train conductor to you? This isn't the Hogwarts Express, kid. Give me a real number."

Clint grimaced again – as if hit by a sudden pain – and his reply was ground out once again through tightly-clenched teeth.

"Higher side of 8."

Dan nodded. A little concerning, but nothing to panic about yet.

"Stretching out help at all?"

Barton thought about that for a moment before nodding slightly.

"Loosening up a little."

Small mercies, Dan supposed.

"Describe the pain."

This time Barton replied immediately.

"Sharp."

"Let me guess: your lower back feels like someone reached in and started twisting a fist in the muscle."

Barton's expression twisted in pain again and his next words were slightly panting.

"Something like that."

Dan shifted his hand to lay flat on Barton's chest.

"Easy, kid. Keep those breaths deep and even. This probably isn't anything big, okay?"

Barton huffed a laugh that was mixed with a heavy dose of sarcasm and pain.

"Have you  _looked_  at my track record lately?"

Dan snorted. Point.

"True, but you've been up and moving for  _how_  long since this happened?"

Barton titled his head slightly and quirked an eyebrow in acquiescence.

"So barring worst-case scenarios, what the hell is wrong?"

"You fell through a skylight, Barton. You probably sprained your back, maybe cracked some ribs. But I'm getting a stretcher down here so we can do an MRI and x-rays to make sure that's all it is. This  _is_  you we're talking about." Dan smirked, patting Clint's chest as condescendingly as he could manage.

He was pleased when Barton rolled his eyes and hummed in sarcastic agreement. A moment later he flinched and his hand fisted at his sides, even his broken finger contracting part way. His eyes snapped closed and he swallowed thickly as he rode out the pain.

Dan took the moment to pull his walkie-talkie off his belt and quietly call for a stretcher. He looked back at Barton when the archer's eyes opened again.

"It can't be that bad, right? You just said I wouldn't have been up and around if it was bad."

Dan sighed.

"Look at me, Barton."

Dan kept his hand carefully on Barton's sternum – a constant pressure meant to reassure. The archer blew out a sharp breath through his nose, visibly attempting to calm himself down, and then shifted his eyes to meet Dan's.

"It's been a hell of a 36 hours. You're exhausted and you've been running on nothing but adrenaline and stubbornness. All that's worn off now and the one person who normally walks you through this type of shit almost died. You need to be horizontal for a while, okay? We can do that _and_  rule out any other issues at the same time."

Barton swallowed again and nodded.

"Good. The stretcher is on the way. And remember, I'm always straight up with you. Let's just make sure things are all in the right places, okay?"

Barton nodded again.

"Then what the hell are you waiting for? The red carpet to roll out?" But there was no fire in his tone and the tired smirk on his lips took away any bite in the words.

Dan rolled his eyes. As long as Barton was being sarcastic, then they were practically 'situation normal.'

* * *

Dan stared at the screens as the MRI ran in the room opposite the window in front of him.

"Is he asleep?"

Dan glanced away from the screen and to where Carly, a nurse from the Panama base, was monitoring Barton's vitals and watching the feed from the camera inside the machine.

Sure enough, Barton's eyes were closed and his breathing seemed even.

Dan smirked.

"I hit him with muscle relaxants and a painkiller. Add a noise-reducing headset and lack of any real sleep in  _way_  too long, and I'm not really surprised he's out."

Though he couldn't remember the last time someone  _had_  actually fallen asleep in an MRI. Leave it to Barton to be the first. Finally, the scan finished, and Dan headed into the adjoining room, reaching to guide the panel Barton was lying on out of the machine.

Barton started – probably startled awake by the movement. Even drugged, the kid was like a soldier in the trenches.

"Only need you upright for a second, kid, work with me."

Dan gripped one of Barton's biceps and Carly gripped the other. Together, with minimal help from Barton himself, they levered him up and supported him towards the stretcher.

Barton finally managed to get his feet under him and stumbled along between them.

"Gonna tuck me in, Wilson?"

Dan snorted.

"Not personally, no. But I'm sure Carly here would be up to the task."

Barton tisked, shaking his head drunkenly as they eased him onto the stretcher.

"I got a deadly spider for that type of thing – and she's the jealous type."

This time, Dan laughed. He shot Carly a look, clearly telling her that comment was something  _never_  to be repeated. Barton and Romanoff weren't in the habit of advertising their relationship.

"Sounds about right, kid. How's the pain?"

"Down to three and three quarters."

Dan shook his head, a warm smile on his face.

"Good. Somehow your ribs are nothing but badly bruised and nothing is out of place. Just a good, old-fashioned lower back sprain with a side order of back spasms. Nothing sitting in an infirmary chair is going to help, though, so Carly is gonna splint your finger and then she's taking your ass up to recovery to get some sleep. That work for you?"

Protest rose in every part of Barton's expression.

"But Phil…"

Dan held up a hand to stop him.

"You trust me, Barton?"

The archer's expression grew even more serious and his eyes were almost painfully sincere.

"You know you don't need to ask that."

Dan saved the warmth that response caused to bask in later.

"Good. Because  _I'm_  going to go sit with him for a while so you can get some sleep. Then I'll hand him off to someone equally trustworthy."

Barton nodded slowly and then abruptly glanced around.

"Where's Natasha?"

He was still looking around like he expected her to pop out from behind a corner.

"Currently warming the chair next to Phil. I'm about to go relieve her and send her your way.  _Everyone_  is getting some sleep even if I have to drug both of your asses."

Barton held up a hand in surrender.

"I want it noted that I'm not resisting."

Dan nodded.

"So noted. I guess there  _is_  a first time for everything. Now let me go so I can relieve Romanoff, okay?"

Barton nodded, settling back on the stretcher with a weary sigh.

"Get going, Wilson. What are you waiting for? Permission?"

Dan was already walking away, holding a hand over his shoulder with a certain finger pointed up.

He smiled as he heard Barton's answering chuckle.

* * *

End of Chapter Ten

I didn't show Phil's return to consciousness because I wanted all of you as suprised by his phone call as Clint was :) Hope I succeeded. And who was so excited to see Clint just flat out HUG Phil on sight? Even our steel strong, never show emotions archer has been pushed up to his breaking point this time around.

Chapter 11 tomorrow! :D

Feed my pet comment monster! If you don't, he'll attack me and then we'll really be in a pickle! :O

And finally you're preview:

* * *

_"Maskov didn't tell me who she was and I didn't ask."_

_She was hearing a seventeen year old Hawkeye talk about his job. That darkness – that was what he was back them. That detachment – that was how he survived it._

_The lead council member scoffed._

_"Are you suggesting that had you known, it would have changed anything?"_

_Clint tilted his head slightly, a dark – and in no way humorous – smirk quirked his lips._

_"No."_


	11. So This Is It. I Sold My Soul For This?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
> 
> Thanks to those who reviewed Chapter Ten: RoS13 and indynerdgirl
> 
> And be-lated shout out to l_ostsheep3 who tagged on a review for Chapter 9 :)
> 
> I hope you all loved that hug last chapter :D Clint, who has an aversion to physical contact and is reserved in it even with Natasha (unless they're alone *wink wink*), giving a hug like that...instigating it himself...that was HUGE. It was meant to show how hard this has been for him, how emotionally draining...and also how things have been put into a sharp new perspective for him :) Hope you all loved that moment as much as I did
> 
> Thank you to Kylen for her beta-powers. Dan is, as usual, her baby in this :)
> 
> This story is dedicated to Kylen
> 
> On to Chapter Eleven...

  
_The path I walk lights up in flames._   
_**R. Karim** _   


* * *

Todd peeked through the window to Phil's room, catching Dan's eye and motioning him out into the hallway. The doctor spared a glance at Phil – who didn't even stir – and then quietly slipped out of the room.

"There a reason you're playing sentry?"

Dan shrugged.

"Barton's back – kid wouldn't stand down unless he knew somebody was with Phil."

Todd nodded – that sounded like their favorite pain in the ass.

"He in one piece?"

He hadn't had a chance to see either of the freshly-returned assassins yet, but he'd made his way to Phil's room as soon as he'd had a spare minute. He  _was_  surprised that Barton wasn't within spitting distance from his downed handler. That could only mean he'd gotten himself hurt somehow.

"Peter Pan'd his way through a skylight and sprained his back. Has more cuts on him than a freshly-mowed yard from all the glass, and managed to break a finger somehow. I also found a  _deep_  crease on his ribs with a few busted stitches on it. No idea where that came from…" Dan trailed off with a sigh.

Todd sighed in return and rubbed at the back of his neck. As injuries went where Barton was concerned, those were all fairly tame. And it didn't explain why he wasn't keeping sentry himself.

"Where is he?"

Dan blew out a breath, the lines of his face softening in sympathy.

"Back spasms literally took him to the ground and the kid's run himself into a deeper exhaustion than I've ever seen. I forced him to get some sleep up in recovery. Romanoff is with him."

Todd nodded and opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a nurse jogging suddenly around the corner. Todd arched an eyebrow curiously as Dan stiffened beside him.

"Hill came and woke them up."

Dan took a sharp step forward. Todd frowned – hoping to hell that the 'them' wasn't who he thought it was.

"You said what?"

The nurse blew out a breath – looking every bit as annoyed as Dan suddenly appeared.

Oh, it was definitely the 'them' he thought it was. Barton and Romanoff couldn't catch a damn break.

"Agent Hill came and woke them up. I tried to stop her but…" She shrugged helplessly.

"What the hell  _for_?" Dan grabbed the nurse and angled for the door. "Never mind, let's go stop them."

Before Todd had a chance to follow, she pulled her arm out of his grip and scowled.

"It's too late. She said the Council had called for a de-brief." She sighed deeply. "By now, they're already there."

Todd reached to rub his eyes wearily even as Dan dropped his face into his hand.

"Nice to know the situation's normal, all fucked up around here." The nurse's eyes went wide in shock at the harsh complaint. "Oh, don't tell me I've offended your virgin ears.  _Please_ , tell me Barton at least left the IV in?"

Even Todd understood the look she gave him in response. It plainly asked "what the  _hell_  do you think" without having to utter a word.

Dan threw up his hands – tension tightening through his shoulders.

"Of  _course_  not." He turned around and stared at the wall opposite Phil's door for a long moment – then, without warning, started pounding on it with his palm.

Todd reacted immediately, latching onto Dan's bicep and pulling him bodily away from the wall.

"Damn it, Dan. You're in the fucking infirmary. Pull your shit together. Fury's there to back him up and so is Romanoff."

Dan reared his other arm back, intending to swing with his left hand.

"You don't think I know that? Dammitall! I have had enough of people being fucked with around here!"

Todd unsuccessfully attempted to stamp down his own frustration.

"Dan, the kid just executed a kill order on a Council member. Did you really think they'd do anything  _but_  demand a de-brief as soon as he got back?"

"No!" Dan stood nose-to-nose with him for a long moment, appearing as willing to back down as Todd was. "But DAMMITALL, this is just…" he stopped, looked at Todd, sputtered out a few disjointed syllables, and then just turned to the wall to lean heavily against it. "Fuck it all. They're getting an exhausted, drugged,  _and_  pissed off Barton. I hope he tells them to go fuck themselves."

Todd sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Go back to Phil. I'll scoop him  _and_  Romanoff up as soon as they're released and make sure they get back to where they belong."

Dan sighed, scrubbing a hand wearily over his face.

"Thanks…it's just…" he sighed and shook his head. "Is it too much to ask that people stop screwing around with my patients?"

Todd reached and gripped his shoulder in a show of solidarity.

"I'll make sure he gets back to bed unscathed.  _You_  should look into getting some ice on that hand you just slammed into that metal wall."

Todd really tried for humor in his expression, but he was just too damn tired to really pull it off.

Dan sighed again and rested his head back against the wall.

"You didn't  _see_  him, Todd. The look on his face…that damned kid needs a break." He pulled his head forward and met Todd's eyes. "Like, sedated for a goddamned week kind of break."

Todd blew out a long breath and released his grip on Dan's shoulder.

"People like Barton don't get breaks…they just learn to keep rolling with the punches." God, if anyone had learned the hard way how to do that, it was Barton. He gave Dan one last nudge before turning away. "Look after that hand."

A glance over his shoulder as he rounded the corner showed Dan wearily pushing off the wall, sending the nurse away with a few words and slowly making his way back to Phil's room.

* * *

Fury looked to the door when he heard the automatic lock shift. A moment later it slid open and Barton stepped into the room, Romanoff barely a breath behind him. For a moment, all Fury could force himself to process was that Barton looked like shit.

 _Worse than shit_.

Exhaustion just didn't seem extreme enough to cover it. And whatever  _it_  was – it was written all over Barton's posture and expression. His jaw was tense like the very act of standing and walking was causing an undue amount of pain. He was covered in cuts, bruises, and scrapes. His eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot and his shoulders stiff with unnatural tension.

What had Bryan said?  _"Not up to keeping his game face on."_  Even that seemed to be an understatement. He couldn't remember ever seeing Barton  _not_  up to keeping at least  _some_ version of a game face on. When his strength failed him, he called upon his ingrained, sarcastic, and stubborn nature and slapped on a cocky smirk. That cocky little smirk was more at home on Barton's face than any other expression, and the absence of it now cut Fury deeper than he was prepared to handle.

"You holding up, Barton?" It was out of his mouth before he could reign it back in and he just  _knew_  a comment about his 'cuddly' nature was headed his way.

But all Barton did was wearily raise his gaze and sigh.

That just made it worse.

Fury ruthlessly stamped down the concern that tried to blossom in his chest. He didn't have time to coddle Barton, the Council would be online in less than two minutes and Barton needed to be  _Barton_  before that happened. If he wasn't, they'd rip him apart.

"I stalled them for as long as I could, but given the situation, the Council is eager to put this situation to rest." He raised his chin a little and stared hard at the archer. "Pull your shit together, kid. They won't care how long your day has been and neither do I. You are an operative of SHIELD and you will present yourself with the professionalism that position dictates, understood?"

It was harsh and unfair – but Fury wasn't always allowed to care. And this was one of those times when he couldn't  _let_  himself care, couldn't give Barton the inch the kid seemed to desperately need. Because the Council would sooner take an inch than give it and the best way to prepare Barton for that was to take even the  _option_  of that inch out of the equation.

His sharp, unyielding tone had the affect he wanted.

Barton's back stiffened, drawing a grimace onto his expression for a moment so brief Fury was sure he imagined it. He was struck with the sudden realization that Barton was injured in a more serious way than those visible superficial wounds dictated. He was injured and exhausted and Fury was making him face the Council – something that always turned into a battle for the kid even on his best day.

But if Barton was anything, he was stubborn. And he was strong as steel.

So it was no surprise that before his eyes, every brick of the kid's defenses were dragged into place. His expression expertly smoothed and then hardened.

If Fury didn't know better – if he couldn't still  _see_  the evidence of exhaustion that Barton couldn't hide – he wouldn't even suspect anything was wrong. Wouldn't suspect that Phil had nearly died. That Barton had fought to defend the New York base for hours. That he'd flown across the country, then to God knew where to  _"right an old wrong",_  then  _back_  without so much as a chance to breath.

Next to him, Romanoff leveled a dark glare in Fury's direction.

Yeah, Fury didn't like himself much right now either.

All he could do was toss her a veiled look of apology before the screens on the wall started flickering to life.

Barton turned without so much as a glance in Fury's direction and squared his shoulders at the screens. Romanoff stepped to stand at his shoulder – a show of solidarity if he'd ever seen one.

Fury took the moment, while both their backs were turned and the Council was still coming online, to lower his head and blow out a calming breath. Barton was a pain the ass, but he was  _Fury's_  pain in the ass. And for some reason he couldn't fathom, he wanted to protect the kid – and he couldn't.

Not from this at least.

He stepped up to Barton's other shoulder as the new 'leader' of the Council spoke.

"Agent Barton, we are here to de-brief you on the kill order you executed on Councilman Matthew Williams."

Barton blinked calmly, hands folded lazily behind his back, appearing for all watching like he was unaffected and unconcerned. Like he  _hadn't_  nearly lost his mentor. Like this  _hadn't_  been all about him. Like he didn't give a flying fuck what any of them said or did.

He looked like  _Barton_.

It was what Fury had wanted – so he wasn't sure why it felt so wrong, looked so out of place.

"So…de-brief me."

Fittingly disrespectful – typical Barton.

"Lay out the situation leading up to the execution of the order."

For a moment so brief Fury was sure no one but he and Romanoff actually noticed, Barton was laid bare. The weight of the all the lost lives settled visibly on his shoulders and his eyes were suddenly haunted with memories. But then, with a blink, it was gone, covered again by the strong, stoic, thinly veiled sarcasm that  _was_  Clint Barton.

"After the attack, we knew we had to move on Williams' location before he could go to ground." Barton's eyebrow cocked sarcastically, "Just as a precaution, of course." Fury had always admired dry sarcasm, and Barton could deliver it with the best of them. "Agent Romanoff and I –"

"You misunderstand, Agent Barton."

Barton blinked slowly, the only indication that the interruption had annoyed him. And he waited – waited right along with Fury and Romanoff for the man to clarify.

"I want you to go back to the  _beginning_  – to the contract you took on Brianna Williams."

Every muscle in the archer's body seemed to tense, and his hands fisted together where they were hidden behind his back. Fury allowed himself a small, imperceptible sigh.

_Oh hell._

* * *

Natasha's eyes snapped over to Clint's profile as soon as Brianna's name left the Council member's lips. Anyone else would miss it, but she could see the subtle tick in the muscle of Clint's jaw. She could see the sudden darkness in his eyes before he hid it away.

She barely resisted the urge to ask  _why_ the hell they had to drag out that skeleton. She  _knew_  why. It all came back to that moment - when Clint completed that contract and killed Brianna Williams.

But that wasn't  _really_  where it all started. She knew now that it all started with Williams. Williams, who was working with Maskov and God knew who else. Williams, who had pissed Maskov off enough to make the man pay out on a contract to kill Brianna.

In the end, it all came back to Williams –  _not_  to Clint.

But she couldn't say that, couldn't defend him. Because a little over twelve hours ago Clint had killed Gerard Maskov and she knew without thinking about it too much that telling  _that_  to the Council would only cause more trouble.

They'd have to tell Fury the truth, she knew that. If only to let the Director look a little deeper into Williams and make sure Maskov was the only dirty dealing in the dead man's past. Fury could do with the information whatever he wanted after that.

Of course all any of that meant right now as that she had to stand there silently and leave Clint to defend  _himself._ Something that he wasn't historically very good at unless it involved physical combat.

She watched Clint blow out a slow breath and square his shoulders.

"It was February of 2003. I got word of a contract in Paris. I was in Marseilles at the time, so I made some calls and took the job."

Natasha was sure no one else heard it, but there was  _something_  in Clint's voice. Something dark but at the same time painfully detached. It wasn't the sort of tone she'd ever heard from him before and something about it terrified her.

It wasn't until he continued that she realized  _what_  that tone was.

"Maskov didn't tell me who she was and I didn't ask."

She was hearing a seventeen-year-old Hawkeye talk about his job. That darkness – that was what he  _was_  back them. That detachment – that was how he survived it.

The lead council member scoffed.

"Are you suggesting that had you known, it would have changed anything?"

Clint tilted his head slightly, a dark – and in no way humorous – smirk quirked his lips.

"No." The darkness faded suddenly and in its place Natasha could plainly see the exhaustion. It was bone deep and there for everyone watching to see. "But you knew who I was –  _what_ I was – when you hired me."

The challenge was clear in his tone. Natasha inwardly mimicked the tone with a challenge of her own. They wanted to act like what Clint was when Phil brought him in was some dirty little secret? They had not only known – they had been  _thrilled._

They had finally had someone to do their dirty work.

She was pleased that Clint at least still had enough fight in him to call bullshit on  _that_. But he wasn't doing it just to challenge them. He let every bit of his weariness – built up over too many sleepless hours and too many fights, both physical and emotional – show in his tone.

She watched no less than two of the Council members visibly soften.

He was manipulating them – those of them that had even an ounce understanding in them.

She couldn't believe it, but on the same hand…she shouldn't have been surprised. Clint wasn't labeled a covert operative for nothing – he could lie and manipulate with the best of them. He'd sensed that fledgling sympathy and decided to exploit it.

That shouldn't make him even  _more_  attractive to her…but it did.

"Williams put the pieces together and has been angling for revenge since the day Phil brought me in."

The entire Council was quiet for a long moment and then a different Council member – an older balding man – spoke up.

"Agent Barton…" Natasha couldn't believe it – the man actually sounded  _sympathetic_. "Would you please tell us the extent of Matthew Williams' attempts at revenge?"

Natasha watched Clint's jaw tick again – the only visible tell that any of this conversation bothered him. When he spoke it was in the same cool, unaffected tone he usually spoke in – but it was laced with a level of exhaustion he wasn't even trying to hide anymore.

"It was all in the recording."

Natasha was shocked to see even  _more_  sympathy rose in the eyes of the man who had asked the question. She was struck with a sense of slight awe. Clint was really holding nothing back here. He must know that this situation could turn on him in a moment – and was willing to even show a form a weakness, however slight it may be, to gain some support.

"I know, Agent Barton, perhaps we can just ask for clarification and confirmation?"

Clint's expression turned incredibly weary and he silently arched an eyebrow to indicate the man should go ahead and ask.

"The Orion mission."

Natasha's mind immediately drew upon everything she knew of that mission, which wasn't much. Clint had only been with SHIELD six months at the time, had only been eighteen years old. He'd nearly died and would have if not for Phil. It had been way before her time here and Clint didn't talk about it much but to say that it was where he'd developed his aversion for molar implants.

After Budapest, it was an opinion she shared whole heartedly.

She saw annoyance pass through Clint's eyes, even if his expression remained neutral.

"You  _all_  agreed to put me on that mission after nothing but a word from him. You did that  _knowing_  I was only six months into training and that I was more likely to get tortured and killed than to complete it. That one isn't just on him, it's on all of  _you_."

Natasha caught Fury's movement, even as slight as it was, out of the corner of her eye. He shifted slightly to his left, hiding his left arm behind Clint's body and giving him an opening to reach and lightly touch the archer's forearm without being seen.

The touch sent a visible jolt through Clint like he'd been shocked by a current.

She watched Clint snap his mouth closed, realizing – as Fury likely intended – that throwing stones at the Council right now wouldn't do him any favors.

While Clint took a moment to mentally reign himself in, Natasha went back to watching the Council members. The sympathetic one – he had a  _very_ slight measure of guilt in his eyes right now. Another, a woman, seemed at least to carry some level of understanding and remorse. The other two – which included the man who seemed to have been appointed leader for now – still looked hard and unyielding.

It was the leader that spoke next.

"The Council reserves the right to assign missions as we see fit. Williams' influence held no bearing on that decision."

Natasha felt her eyebrows rise in disbelief, but it was Fury that replied.

"No need for you to get so defensive," Fury's eyebrow rose in slight challenge, "unless you feel your actions  _need_  a defense."

Natasha smirked. Fury definitely had a way with words. The Council member either had to back off that point or admit that he had done something wrong all those years ago when he'd voted to assign Clint that mission.

The sympathetic councilman spoke again.

"We are here to gather facts, nothing more. Agent Barton, if we may move on?"

Clint's expression morphed to clearly invite the man to continue.

"The next mission that Williams claimed involvement in was Uzbekistan, correct?"

Clint nodded once.

Natasha barely resisted the urge to shift her weight and lower her eyes.

Uzbekistan.

Clint had been sent there because of her – because he'd risked everything for  _her_. He'd been tortured, cruelly and viciously. He'd  _died_  only to be pulled back from the ledge by Phil. She'd barely known him then. She hadn't known the truth of his past, hadn't realized he harbored the same darkness she did.

But she'd known – more than she'd known anything at the time – that he hadn't deserved what happened to him there.

She'd blamed  _herself_  for so long. She'd believed that it was her fault he'd ended up there, hurt and alone. But now she knew the truth. In the end, she'd had nearly nothing to do with it. Williams had found out where Clint was, had known he was alone, and he'd taken the opportunity to try once more to exact his revenge.

"He contracted a mercenary group to take you captive?"

Clint nodded again.

"During your captivity you sustained injuries, correct?"

Now Clint's eyebrow arched.

"If you wanna call my heart stopping 'sustaining injuries'…sure."

At least he still had it in him to be sarcastic. That was her hawk. She was convinced that even dying, the last thing to go would be his penchant for sarcasm.

The councilman nodded and looked down at something on his desk.

"Then we come to Budapest."

Clint's gaze cut over his shoulder very briefly to look at her. Budapest was still fresh in both of their minds. She was sure the lingering effects of the poison he was dosed with were playing a part in his level of exhaustion now.

Fury stepped up so he was standing a step ahead of Clint now.

"I believe I've given you all the information that there is to know on that situation. Agent Barton doesn't have anything else to add concerning it."

If the way his eyebrows rose in slight surprise was anything to go by, Clint was just as shocked as she was when all the Council members nodded in agreeable – albeit somewhat grudging – understanding.

"On that same note, I do not believe any further clarification surrounding the attack on the New York base is necessary either."

Fury's tone implied that he expected no contradiction, and that any that came would not be received well.

The sympathetic councilman nodded and spoke before anyone else could.

"Then let us move on to the kill order itself. Agent Barton, please explain how you and Agent Romanoff came to obtain custody of Mathew Williams."

And Clint did. He mechanically delivered the report like it was  _any_  other report and rehashed every detail of their entry and capture of Williams. He answered the seemingly never-ending questions volleyed at him from the Council without complaint, and Natasha listened closely, knowing she'd be asked to add her own account of events when he was done.

She wasn't surprised when Clint was a bit… _liberal_ …with some of the details. For instance, he reported to have 'disarmed' Williams after going through the skylight but left out the part about nearly shooting him. He also skipped the nearly strangling him part of the interrogation and left out the miscommunication about Phil's survival all together.

She noted each change carefully, so that if asked, she could effectively corroborate each point.

"Then the call came in from Fury and I executed him with three shots – two to the heart, one to the head."

All the Council members were rapidly taking down notes, one of them nodding along as he wrote.

"Agent Romanoff, anything to add?"

Natasha cleared her throat and replied.

"After Agent Barton went through the skylight, I met the remaining hired security on the rooftop and engaged in close combat with them. After eliminating the final hostile, I jumped down through the broken skylight in time to see Agent Barton disarm Williams. After that, it happened as Agent Barton reported."

They all nodded nearly in synchronization. Natasha should have been done, could have ended her part in the de-brief there. But her mouth moved before she could stop it.

"Williams wanted to die. He baited him – tried several times to force Agent Barton's hand and get him to kill him before the order." She glanced at Clint's profile, pride rising in her. "Agent Barton didn't give him that satisfaction."

Whether or not  _that_  was a near thing didn't really matter. In the end, Clint hadn't let him win. He'd kept his cool as best he could and when he hadn't…when he hadn't, Natasha was there to help him get it back. That was her job – why she was there.

They were partners – in every way, in every _thing_ , forever.

* * *

Fury allowed himself a small smirk of pride. Barton  _had_  acted with remarkable restraint and he had no doubt that it had been a fierce battle to retain that control. But the kid had done it – he'd waited. How close he'd gotten to  _not_  waiting – that didn't matter.

"Williams knew that if Barton killed him without a kill order, he'd be marked and a kill order would be issued on him. His endgame has always been to see Agent Barton dead and Agent Romanoff's assessment shows that he was willing to do whatever it took to achieve that endgame – even if it meant dying himself."

The man appointed current leader sat forward, his gaze hard and fixed on Barton. Fury fought the sudden urge to step between them – to shield Barton from that gaze.

"But you cannot deny, Agent Barton, that you set these events in motion. By killing councilman Williams' daughter, you  _caused_  all of this."

 _Oh_   _hell no._ No way was he going to let them turn this shit storm around on Barton – not right now. Screw not shielding him – Fury would become a god damned blast wall if he had to.

"Don't answer that."

Fury stepped forward and to his left, putting his back to Barton – who was suddenly looking several shades too pale.

"You have your account of the hit, Council members. At this juncture, that is all I have time to allow. In case it has escaped your attention, my base is in shambles and my personnel displaced. You decided, by issuing that order, where the blame belonged and it is  _not_  with Agent Barton."

The leader opened his mouth to protest, but Fury cut him off.

"I'll be in touch."

Then he reached to terminate the communication.

Then he just stood there and blew out a long breath, glancing at his watch.

Just under two hours.  _Damn._

He looked back to Barton and Romanoff. The red-haired assassin had her hand on Barton's forearm and was speaking to him in a tone low enough that Fury couldn't hear. Impressive considering he was only a few feet away.

Barton, for his part, had his head downturned and the muscle in the side of his jaw was working overtime.

"Romanoff, give us a minute."

The assassin fixed him with such a heated, scathing look that, for a moment, Fury was sure she'd lash out at him. But just as quickly as the fire had risen, she covered it, eyes going back to Barton.

"I'll be right outside."

Barton nodded slightly and Fury watched his eyes track her progress to the door.

For a moment they stood in absolute silence, broken only by the sounds of their breathing.

"This isn't on you, Barton."

Barton rolled his eyes, but the gesture lacked the usual level of sarcasm it tended to entail. In fact the gesture almost looked habitual – like he knew it'd be expected and that was the only reason for doing it.

"Oh, no?"

Fury scowled and stepped towards the archer, putting them toe-to-toe and forcing Barton to tilt his head back to meet his eyes.

"No."

He put every ounce of authority he had into that one word. He needed Barton to hear him – to  _believe_  him.

The critically dubious, eyebrow arched expression that stole over Barton's face was so  _Barton_  – that Fury was actually relieved to see it.

"The Council seems to disagree."

"Fuck the Council."

Both Barton's eyebrows hit his hairline in surprise.

"What do  _you_  believe, Barton?"

Barton's stormy, blue-gray gaze met his one dark eye. He watched Barton  _really_ consider that question and decide how to respond.

"I believe…" he sighed wearily, "that Brianna Williams deserved justice."

Fury wasn't quite expecting that. It wasn't a straight forward acknowledgement of Barton's guilt or innocence in the matter – it was a deflection. Maybe he  _should_  have expected it. It  _was_  Barton after all.

"And did you give her that?"

For the first time in his life, Fury saw real, honest, raw vulnerability in Barton's eyes.

"In the only way I knew how – the only way I could."

Fury saw, then, the weight Barton carried for his past sins. He saw it settled heavily on the archer's broad shoulders. And he suddenly understood – with more clarity than he ever had – why Phil had fought so hard for this kid.

How could you look at someone who carried  _so_  much regret and not want to guide them on the path to absolution? Barton punished  _himself_  for his past sins more than anyone else ever could.

But there would always be men like Williams in the world – men who were determined to make him pay for what he'd done. And it was men like that – men like Williams and the Council – who would never let Barton forget who he'd been and who would never care who he was  _now_.

But Fury knew who Barton had been – and knew even better who he was  _now_. And it was that knowledge that had him lowering his voice and speaking to Barton with more sincerity than he ever had.

"Williams wasn't wrong to want justice for his daughter." He could tell by Barton's expression that he didn't disagree. "But there are a dozen other ways he could have gotten that without pulling innocent people into the line of fire. Hell, he could have brought it to the Council and had you convicted without much trouble."

Barton's eyebrow twitched like he hadn't even thought of that. Hadn't realized there had been a  _legitimate_ way that Williams could have gotten his justice. Something about that knowledge seemed to ease the weight Barton carried and some of the shadows faded from his eyes.

Good. Fury had about filled his quota of warm fuzzies for the year and it was time to reestablish their status quo.

"You're dismissed, Agent Barton."

That had about the amount of firm authority Barton would expect. He saw the archer's lips twitch, like he was somehow comforted by the familiarity of Fury's hard tone. He dipped his head once and turned, heading for the door.

Fury almost let it be done – let Barton walk out the door without another word. But  _hell_ …the kid looked about ready to drop and Fury knew he'd been through the ringer in the past day and a half.

"I don't want to see you anywhere near command for at least forty eight hours, understood?"

Barton paused at the door, clearly surprised by the directive. Then those blue-gray eyes were peeking over his shoulder with a distinctive light of humor.

"You fluffy teddy bear, you."

Then Barton slid out the door without giving him a chance to mount a defense.

* * *

Clint was vaguely surprised to see Bryan standing with Natasha just outside the door. Natasha moved to his side immediately, her own tired eyes looking over him worriedly. Bryan looked equally concerned from his place leaning against the wall.

"Kid, you look beat."

Clint blinked at him. He  _really_  wished he had the energy to snap out some fittingly sarcastic response, but right now all his mind could come up with was something about 'captain obvious' – which just wasn't up to his usual standards.

God, he just wanted to  _sleep_  – for as many hours as his body would allow.

He knew if he didn't say  _something_  though, that worry in Bryan and Natasha's gaze would only heighten. And he was so damn tired of people looking at him like he was about to fall apart, or collapse, or just shut down and start muttering "does not compute."

Whether or not he  _was_  a breath away from just collapsing and shutting down was just… _so_  not the point.

So he opened his mouth, still wracking his brain to figure what he could say to get them both to relax. But he never got a word out.

Because his body chose that moment to realize that not only had his initial dose of painkillers and muscle relaxants worn off as he was being marched by Hill from his bed in the recovery ward – after only a meager forty five minutes of sleep – to the Council chambers, but he'd been standing ramrod straight for the past two hours because the Council  _just couldn't wait._

It wasn't as bad as it had been the first time. For starters – other than needing to steady himself with a hand on Natasha's arm, he genuinely felt like he could keep his feet under him. But the muscles of his lower back were twisting and pulling again, painfully reminding him that he needed to just  _stop_.

"Clint?" And now he'd done the exact  _opposite_ of what he'd wanted – Natasha was even  _more_  worried.

"'M fine…" But he felt his hand tighten around her arm as he rode out a spasm of pain – and he knew she felt it too. Bryan suddenly appeared at his other side, eyes wide and worried.

"Your back?" Natasha questioned lowly, her mouth close to his ear, to keep anyone from eavesdropping.

Clint couldn't find his voice to reply, so he just jerked his head in a slight nod.

Natasha slid closer, deftly pulling his hand off her arm and allowing it to wrap around her own hand instead. Then she braced her free hand against the small of his back.

"Breathe through it. Can you make it to a bed?"

He nodded again because he sure as hell wasn't leaving the bridge by anything other than his own power. He was already showing prying eyes more than he wanted to.

"Follow me." Todd nudged his arm and started away from the Council chambers.

It took Clint a second, but he mentally overpowered the pain and exhaustion. He released his grip on Natasha's hand and started after Bryan, straining to make every step appear smooth instead of forced. Natasha hovered at his side, ready to jump in if he needed it, but not forcing him to accept help he hadn't asked for.

By the time they made it back to the infirmary, every step sent spikes of fiery pain through his back, every breath made the muscles pull sharply. He and Natasha followed Bryan past the intake desk in the recovery ward and back toward the two beds they'd occupied before Hill came and snatched them away.

"Get Dan Wilson on the phone for me," Bryan called back to the nurse over his shoulder, but Clint didn't look back to see if he was being obeyed.

No sooner had Bryan snapped the privacy curtain around to hide them, than Natasha's hands were on him. One supported his back and the other latched onto his arm, guiding him to the nearest bed.

Clint couldn't hold back the groan that forced its way free as he mostly collapsed onto the thin mattress. Natasha helped him roll onto his back and for a moment, he just laid there, one knee bent towards the ceiling and the other laying flat.

God, he  _hurt_.

Natasha's hand settled on his chest, a soothing, comforting weight, and he dropped one of his own hands down to rest on top of hers. Her other hand started combing through his hair and he let his eyes drift closed.

He didn't even bother to open them when he heard the nurse peek in and hand Bryan what he could only assume was a phone.

"Dan." Bryan went quite for a moment. "Yeah, he's horizontal again, but his back is acting up." Bryan was silent for a few seconds then he grunted something and something hard and plastic was suddenly getting pressed into Clint's free hand.

He automatically opened his eyes, looking at the cordless phone for a moment before raising it to his head.

"Wilson?"

" _You need me to come back?"_

Clint shook his head immediately before he remembered that Wilson couldn't see him.

"Nah…stay with Phil."

" _Fine - do you need a sedative?"_

It was an honest question and the tone indicated an honest answer was expected.

"Sleepin' isn' gonna be an issue…trus' me."

Was he slurring? Hell, he was practically halfway to sleep right now with the soothing rhythm of Tasha's fingers carding through his hair. Yeah – sedative definitely wasn't necessary.

" _What about the pain?"_

"I jus' need'a sleep."

" _How about some more painkillers and muscle relaxants to help that along then."_

"Don' need 'em…"

" _Barton, you'll sleep a hell of a lot better if your body's not having to put up a fight. So just take the damn drugs and shut up about it."_

Clint mumbled something he intended to indicate further resistance. He hated drugs, would fight tooth and nail to avoid them if he could.

" _I'm gonna take that as a 'yes, of course, whatever you say, Wilson. Thank you so much for your kind concern.' Give the phone back to Todd."_

Clint shifted the phone slightly away from his head and a moment later it was pulled from his grip. He lost a little time because the next thing he knew, Natasha was gently shaking him and quietly warning him that a he was about to get an IV put in.

The last thing he was aware of was Bryan's low strong voice.

"You too, Romanoff. That bed right there has your name on it. If he was coherent enough to see that you were still vertical, he'd glare you right into that bad…yes, thank you. Sleep tight, kiddos."

Then the curtain shifted and Clint was done.

* * *

End of Chapter 11

Clint is gonna take a much needed siesta :)

Now...brace yourselves, I have troubling news...due to the fact that I've decided to add a chapter's worth of story material and my amazing beta and I have to contend with real life...the next chapter will not be ready to go up until Thursday morning :O I know! It'll be okay! Just BREATHE! Now...if by some chance we get an opportunity to get it finished and beta'd before then I will most assuredly post it sooner...THIS is why I finish stories before I post them, so that you lovely people don't have to wait for chapters...however, I believe the additions are going to be well received and appreciated so...please don't throw any flaming torches at me

Now...if you still have an ounce of affection for me, you can let me know that by leaving a comment...otherwise...I may just go...*sniff*...cry in a corner and start believing you all hate me...*sniff sniff*

And on to your preview! :D

* * *

_"Make up your mind, Clint! Do you believe in redemption or not? Because if you don't, then what the hell is the point?"_

_Fire lit Clint's eyes._

_"I believe in redemption."_

_"Just not for yourself?" Phil challenged harshly._


	12. Washed My Hands Of That For This?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to those who commented on Chapter 11: fireun, RoS13, and indynerdgirl
> 
> Thank you to Kylen for her beta-ness. Dan's words are from her mouth :D
> 
> This story is dedicated to Kylen
> 
> On to Chapter Twelve...

  
_Everything Dies. That is the law of life-the bitter unchangeable law._   
_**David Clement-Davies** _   


* * *

Phil returned to consciousness slowly, easing his way out of the shroud of sleep and blinking lazily at the ceiling for a moment. He knew without looking that the presence he felt in the room with him wasn't Clint and he hoped that meant the kid had gotten himself looked after.

He rolled his head on his pillow, grinning slightly at the sight that met him.

Dan was slouched in the chair next to the bed – feet propped against the mattress, arms crossed, and chin resting on his chest.

And he was  _snoring_.

Grimacing, Phil reached for his cup of ice chips and dug his fingers into it, retrieving one of the last little pieces amongst the cool water. He set the cup aside and looked back at Dan.

Still asleep. And still  _snoring_.

Phil smirked and tossed the small piece of ice at his friend.

He wasn't Clint, but his aim was nothing to sneeze at. The ice piece hit Dan on the crown of his head, bouncing off to land on his lap.

It was enough.

The doctor flinched, nearly tipped the chair backwards, and snapped his head up in surprise. Then he blinked owlishly at Phil for a long moment.

"What the hell – are you  _five_? Try using your words next time."

Phil smiled tiredly and waved his hand apologetically.

"Sorry – you made an easy target."

"Okay,  _Barton_." Dan scolded with an eye roll. The comment brought Clint back to the forefront of Phil's mind.

"Speaking of Clint – how'd you manage to drag him away?"

Dan sighed, rubbing his fingers over his eyes tiredly. The action made Phil regret waking him. The man looked almost as exhausted as Clint had.

"Drag is a good word, actually." Dan glanced down at his watch and sighed loudly. "Kid sprained his lower back falling through a skylight and it finally locked up on him about four hours ago."

"A skylight?" Phil stiffened, worry spiking through him as his mind drew up memories of the stiff set to Clint's shoulders, the ramrod straight way he was sitting. The grimace that stole across his expression wasn't just about his  _own_  pain – his own emotions flooding his muscles with adrenaline.

Dan must have seen the pain. He reached out with one hand to keep him from moving, and then tapped a button on his IV pole with his other. Almost immediately, Phil felt welcome relief spread through his body.

"Yeah, a skylight. I sent him and Romanoff to get some rest, but the fucking council decided they needed to do their fucking debrief at about the same fucking time." Dan's face twisted with frustration, and Phil couldn't help the slight twitch of his lips at the thickly lain sarcasm. "I'm a doctor. I'm supposed to have some authority over upper-echelon assholes fucking around with my patients. But no." Dan kicked at the floor in frustration. "Todd just ducked in about 30 minutes ago and told me they were both out for the count again, so small blessings." Dan held up a hand. "And before you ask,  _no_ , I have  _no_  idea how it went."

"Any idea when Clint'll surface again?"

If he hadn't been sedated, then he could wake at any time. He tended to operate on a timetable all his own. That talent could be both a blessing and a curse, depending on the circumstances.

Dan sighed.

"He's not sedated, but he is loaded with some drugs for his back, so…" Dan chuckled. "Hopefully he won't so much as twitch until he's had a solid eight hours."

Phil nodded, feeling an odd mixture of agreement and frustration. He wanted to talk to Clint – to assess and repair whatever damage the Council had done this time around. But he also knew that sleep was probably the most important – and healthy – thing Clint could be doing at the moment.

"But he's good, other than the sprain and the exhaustion?"

Because if he knew anything about Clint, it was that injuries tended not to be as simple as they seemed.

Dan raised an eyebrow – which didn't exactly put his mind at ease.

"Good? What's good right now?" Dan slumped back in the chair, yawning. "Yeah, he's good. Well, as good as he can get right now, anyhow."

Phil supposed that would have to be enough until he could see Clint again for himself.

Dan's gaze shifted to scan the various monitors surrounding Phil's bed.

"How about you?"

"You tell me, you're the doctor." All Phil knew was that he didn't  _hurt_  – and that was about all he had the capacity to judge at the moment.

Dan sighed, looking suddenly like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

"You shouldn't be here, Phil."

Phil resisted the urge to arch an eyebrow – unwilling to test fate by pulling at the wound on his head again.

"That's what I'm gathering by the ICU treatment." He tilted his head slightly. "Guess I'm the one that gave the scare this time."

About time someone other than Clint did that. Phil would take this turnaround – a welcome change from Clint being here in his place – any time.

Dan nodded wryly.

"You could say that."

Then he sighed.

"You have a bullet hole in your leg, a bullet hole in your chest, and one hell of a nice crease in your head." Dan looked up at the ceiling, as if seeing guidance from above. "And if you haven't looked in a mirror, the remnants of a big black 'X' on your forehead."

Phil blinked and frowned, resisting the urge to reach up and touch his forehead.

"What the hell? You let someone come after me with a marker while I was out?"

But that didn't seem right. Something wasn't clicking together in his head. Phil knew he was missing something.

"No, we got a grenade in the infirmary and had to improvise on triage protocol."

Dan and blunt were practically synonymous sometimes. Phil closed his eyes, trying to wrap his mind around what the doctor was trying to tell him. Then it suddenly clicked and a sickening feeling settled in his stomach.

He knew triage protocols, had been trained in them himself. That X…

"Jesus…" He shakily raised a hand to rub over his face and forced his eyes open.

Dan swallowed as if physically pained by what he said next.

"One of my nurses triaged you off, Phil. And Barton wouldn't take no for an answer."

Phil blew out a sharp breath, hit with a sudden visual of Clint supporting his bleeding, broken body. Suddenly this turnabout wasn't as welcome as it had been moments ago. That feeling of carrying someone's life in your hands – someone who  _meant_  something to you – it was a feeling he'd never wish on anyone, least of all Clint, who carried so much already.

"Jesus." He repeated quietly, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to go find his agent and make sure he was okay. At the same time, he knew there was no way he  _could_  be – no more than  _he_  had been okay after nearly losing Clint in Croatia. In fact, looking at the evidence now, it was  _obvious_  that he wasn't. The tone of his voice on that phone call. The  _hug_. Clint was most assuredly  _not_  okay – Coulson had just been too far off his own game to put the pieces together until now.

"Hey, look at me."

Phil shifted his gaze to Dan's immediately, ashamed that he'd tuned the doctor out mid-conversation.

"He's coping for now. Seeing you alive helped. So will getting some rest." Dan's voice dropped, growing rough with emotion. "But Phil…I know the nurse who made that call. It wasn't … dammit, she wasn't wrong."

Phil clenched his jaw and had to look away. All evidence had told him once that Clint was dead and he'd made the mistake of believing it. Because of that lack of faith, Clint had been forced to save himself. If the archer had been any less than who he was – a stubborn-assed fighter who didn't know how to quit – he'd never have made it out of Cairo alive.

Phil frowned – taking in the tense set of Dan's shoulders, the worry lingering in his gaze.

"But Clint didn't take no for an answer." He tended not to when he had his mind set on something. And knowing Clint, he'd probably pissed off a lot of people in the process. But since his archer wasn't currently in any serious trouble that Phil knew of, he would've had to have help. "You backed him up, didn't you?"

Dan Wilson didn't often glare, but when he did, his eyes got steely cold with anger.

"You know damn well I did. So did Todd. And I'd do it again without any damned hesitation."

"Dan, there are triage protocols for a reason…" Phil stopped himself suddenly. He thought of Clint –  _his_  Clint suddenly being faced with the real possibility of watching Phil die. Phil had been in that position too many times not to know how it felt. He wouldn't have taken no for an answer if it had been him. And he'd hope – no, he'd  _expect_  – Dan to back  _him_  up too. To do whatever it took to keep Clint alive.

He raised his eyes back to Dan.

"Thank you." For protecting Clint from that loss. For saving Phil's life.

Dan quirked a half smile.

"You're welcome." Then the doctor sighed and rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. "But you're right. Those protocols exist for a reason, Phil, and I broke 'em."

Phil frowned.

"And in front of a hell of a lot of people too." Dan added with a humorless quirk in his lips.

Phil knew what that meant. It meant too many people had seen whatever had happened  _happen_. It meant someone was going to have to answer for it.

"Has Fury addressed it yet?" Though Phil doubted he had – not with the chaos that still surrounded the situation. Dan confirmed his instinct a moment later by shaking his head.

"Hasn't had the time. The rumor mill is in full swing though, so I'll bet my job that conversation is coming. He doesn't have a choice. We left the people in that LZ primed for a riot and from what I hear, if not for some of Todd's guys, it would have become one."

Phil shook his head and studied the IV port in the back of his hand – a welcome distraction.

"Somebody's gonna take a hit on this." He knew Fury too well to expect anything different. "Could even be you."  _God_ , it could be Clint.

Dan's face grew grim, but also resolved. But behind that Phil could see carefully concealed worry.

"It  _should_  be me – and me alone. I was the medical authority on the scene and I made the call."

Phil frowned again.

"Clint won't see it that way. You  _know_  he won't. If you hadn't helped him, he would have just found another way."

Because 'medical authority on the scene' or not, they  _both_  knew Clint had no problem telling authority to shove it. There was no doubt in Phil's mind that Clint had started this – had put people like Dan and Todd in a position to either help him, or be forced to try and stop him.

And how had Dan put it once? Clint was about as stoppable as freight train. And the kid  _knew_  it.

But he was also man enough to face the consequences of his actions. He always had been.

"He won't let you take the fall for this."

"I know that." Dan admitted with a sigh. "Which is why I'm going to Fury as soon as he's done mopping up this mess, so we can hammer all this out." He pointed a firm finger at Phil's chest. "And  _you_  are not telling Barton about that, either."

Phil quirked his lips doubtfully and furrowed his brow. Clint would be pissed when he found out Dan had gone to Fury without telling him.

"If you argue with me, I'll sedate your ass until it's done. God knows I've got reason enough right now."

Phil glared hard at him, feeling at a crossroads. His first instinct was always to protect Clint, to shield him the best he could from  _anything_ he could. But he'd never had to protect Clint at the cost of a friend before. Though, Dan  _wasn't_  really giving any of them a choice. He was protecting Clint too – in his own way. And he was taking responsibility for  _his_  decisions, just like Clint would if given the option.

Dan just intended to see that Clint didn't get that option.

"If you take a hit for this, he'll just go to Fury anyway."

"If it comes to that, then we'll just have to figure out a way to stop him."

Phil huffed a slight laugh. He wished the doctor luck with that. With a sigh, he met his friend's eyes.

"Thank you, Dan – for backing him up." And for being willing to take the heat that choice would bring.

"What was I gonna do?" Dan's lips quirked sadly. "Tell him no? Tell him he had to watch you die in the dirt? I wasn't going to do that – not to him." Dan's expression tightened, his eyes glazing for a brief moment as he seemed to get lost in some memory. He shook himself and focused back on Phil, "Maybe if he hadn't been…if it had just been you…" he shook his head. "I saw you, and I saw a chance. And there was no way I could tell him no."

Phil dipped his chin. He knew what Dan was trying to say. If Clint hadn't been there, hadn't been the one looking Dan in the face begging for help, then maybe they wouldn't be having this discussion. Dan would have had a chance to do what he was supposed to – be objective. Make the hard choice. Phil would have done the same in his position.

No. That wasn't fair. Clint was the exception to his objectivity, always had been. And apparently Clint was an exception to Dan too.

"Besides, that kid would have gone through me and anyone else between you and help. The way I see it, I kept a few more names of the injured list – and given the beat down he delivered when some guys tried to pull him back from you once we got here, maybe even kept some bodies out of the morgue."

Phil filed that little piece of information away for later and inclined his head in agreement. He knew what  _he_  was capable of when Clint's life was in danger, the lengths he was willing to go to. He didn't want to think about what Clint – one of the most highly-trained killers in the world – would do if he felt backed into a corner like that. He was glad Dan and Todd had kept that scenario from playing out.

"Thank you." He found himself saying it again, but for an entirely different reason now.

Dan made an odd face, like he wasn't  _quite_  sure why he was getting thanked again, but then he offered a weak smile.

"Thank me after you're done with rehab. By that point, you might wish they'd let you die." The humor was forced and weak. Phil could see a lingering grimness hidden behind the tight smile.

"You're a good friend, Dan." One of the best as far as Phil was concerned.

Dan sighed, long and weary.

"That's the side of my brain that kicked in, Phil. Not a doctor running triage. What the hell does that say?"

That things were probably about to change. If Phil could see that Dan had been more friend than doctor when it was down to the wire – if _Dan_  saw it – then Fury sure as hell did too.

"It says," Phil gave him a sad smile, "that you're a good friend."

Phil knew for a fact that sometimes that mattered more than anything else – but sometimes, it also came with consequences.

Dan nodded, swallowing thickly and staring off to his right for a moment.

"Phil…I don't regret it." His eyes shifted back to Phil's. "I never will."

Phil wasn't quite sure what to say to that and a moment later Dan let him off the hook with a weary grin.

"Hell, maybe Fury'll be so happy you're alive and Williams is dead that he'll decide it's all no big deal."

Phil smiled slightly in return, but his heart wasn't in it. There was no way Fury was going to brush this under the rug.

Dan's smile faded and he sighed.

"Can we at least pretend to be optimistic?"

Phil quirked his lips, suddenly remembering something Clint had said to him many times.

"I can do optimism. I've been told I have an annoying habit of it."

* * *

Phil woke vaguely when Todd replaced Dan at his bedside, but did nothing more than acknowledge the man before drifting back to sleep. He woke once again when a nurse changed something in his IV and saw Todd sleeping soundly in the chair next to the bed. The next time he woke, Todd was gone.

But in his place was a sight that warmed Phil right to his soul.

Clint.

The archer was slumped forward out of the chair, his head pillowed on his arms where they rested on the edge of Phil's bed. He'd pulled the chair close to the bed, keeping his back from having to stretch too far. His face was turned away, so all Phil could see was his hair – which looked freshly washed. His bloody black t-shirt had been replaced by a white one and Phil could see the edge of blue scrub pants peeking out from under the shirt's hem.

The cuts and scrapes on his arms had obviously been treated – a few of them apparently having merited actual stitches and bandaging. His back looked loose in a way that was almost foreign. Tension seemed to be something Clint just lived with – to see that gone, could only mean painkillers, maybe muscle relaxants. With a sprained back, that would make sense. Dan  _had_  said he'd drugged him.

Phil shifted slightly, debating on whether or not to wake him. A glance at the clock on the wall told him it had been well over ten hours since Dan had told him Clint was finally getting some much-needed – and much-deserved – rest. That hopefully meant Clint had only been awake long enough to come relieve Todd and go right back to sleep.

Though it did beckon the question about where Natasha was.

In the end, he still hadn't come to a decision one way or the other one waking him when the archer made the choice for him.

One breath he was sleeping almost peacefully, the next his was flinching awake so violently, he nearly toppled Phil's IV stand with a flailing hand.

"Whoa, whoa…" Phil tried to push himself up and failed, gasping in pain. He pushed it aside and reached for the bed controls – eyes pinned to Clint as he half stood out of his chair and tried to back away from whatever he was seeing. "Clint!" he snapped the name out sharply – drawing the archer's attention.

Clint's arms windmilled out, trying to catch his balance, but then his legs backed into the chair and he sat – more fell – into it… _hard._

Clint sat frozen for a moment – eyes wide and breathing harsh. Then he blew out a breath, eyes sliding to Phil's.

"I really need to stop waking up like that."

Phil wasn't sure what that meant, but he put aside to ask about later. He watched Clint carefully shift in the chair. Whatever reprieve he'd had in the muscles of his back seemed to have come to an end, his movements painfully stiff.

"You all right?" Phil asked, relaxing back in his pillows. He kept his worried gaze on his protégé, watching Clint's left hand drift to press against the small of his back.

Clint barked out a laugh that lacked any real humor and reached to rub his eyes with his right hand, splinted finger seemingly ignored. He still looked painfully exhausted, but his skin held more color than it had last time Phil had seen him and some of the redness had faded from in and around his eyes.

"Ask a simpler question."

Phil could do that – for  _now_.

"Where's Natasha?"

Clint glanced over his shoulder as if he expected her to appear at any moment.

"Hill finally found us a place to call temporary quarters – Tasha's getting cleaned up. She said she'd go scare up some food after that."

Phil nodded and arched a challenging eyebrow when Clint gave him a long appraising look. His eyes drifted from Phil's head, to his chest, to his thigh then back to his face. Something darkened his gaze for a moment before he blinked it away and sighed.

"How're you feeling?"

"I'm okay." It wasn't a lie. Whatever painkiller they had him on was doing its job and he was on the road to recovery.

Clint looked skeptical for a moment, but didn't challenge the claim.

"And you?" Phil asked again. "Dan mentioned a skylight?"

Clint scowled a little and shifted in the chair.

"I got pushed…well,  _thrown_."

Phil blinked patiently.

"Through a skylight." He kept his tone purposefully deadpan – hoping to keep the situation as light as he could for as long as he could.

The archer actually looked mildly embarrassed.

"The guy had fifty pounds on me –  _at least_ …" A slight defensiveness sprouted in his eyes. "I pulled him down with me."

Because  _that_  made it all better.

"You hurt your back?" Phil prodded, hoping Clint wouldn't make this the battle he usually did.

Maybe he sensed Phil's weariness and worry – or maybe he was just still too tired to put up a fight, but Clint sighed and replied almost immediately.

"Sprained it pretty bad, if Wilson is to be taken seriously."

Phil shifted his gaze pointedly to take in Clint's other injuries.

"Glass." Clint explained simply. "Apparently he had to dig some out of my back too, but I was so drugged up by that point I don't really remember it."

That was probably for the best – that kid needed more memories of pain like he needed a hole in the head.

"And the finger?"

Clint held up his right hand, glaring at his splinted finger with minor annoyance.

"That one can be blamed on Williams."

"He broke your finger?"

"His rib did."

Oh.

"I broke _it_  first, though, so I guess it was only fair."

That explained the bruises on the rest of the knuckles and the mild abrasions Phil could see on the knuckles of his left hand. Williams had apparently been given some of Clint's version of 'old fashioned hospitality'. It was about time Clint was the one  _giving_  that instead of receiving it.

Though that meant Clint had – at some point – let Williams bait him into losing control.

"What did he say to you?"

Clint's expression went so carefully  _blank_ that Phil knew this conversation was suddenly essential. Clint didn't do blank – not with him – hadn't for years now. He did anger, he did self-loathing, he did hurt and fear…but not blank. He didn't lock Phil out.

Not unless whatever he was feeling had him so twisted up that he wasn't even ready to face it himself yet.

"He said a lot of things." The tone of his voice was  _haunting_  and it had Phil forcing down the urge to go kick Williams' dead body. "But that's not why I beat the shit out of him."

They'd circle back to whatever Williams had said to him eventually – when Clint was ready to talk about it. Until then, Phil wasn't left with much of a choice but to follow the path Clint set.

"Then why did you?"

Clint shifted his jaw and chewed the inside of his lip briefly and then his eyes cut away, hiding whatever was in them.

"Did you know the Council didn't even let me sleep an  _hour_  before they called for a de-brief about Williams?"

Phil sighed. He supposed it wouldn't be a conversation with Clint if there weren't a certain amount of diversionary techniques and non-sequitur subject changes.

"And how did that go?" They'd have to talk about it sooner or later, might as well do it now.

"It was the same barrel of laughs it always is." And there was the typical smirk of sarcasm Clint usually wore when the Council was the subject of conversation.

"What'd they say?"

"Not much actually – mostly asked an assload of questions they already knew the answers to." Clint threw up his hands in mocking air quotes. "'For 'clarification and confirmation,' or some shit like that."

Phil was a little confused about what they'd need clarification and confirmation about. He should think if they'd had enough evidence to merit issuing a kill order, then there was really nothing left to be said.

"What did they want to clarify and confirm?"

Clint shot him a hesitant look and waited a long beat before answering.

"Williams' other attempts to send me to hell ahead of schedule."

Phil froze.  _Other_  attempts? As far as  _he knew,_ there was only one other attempt – Budapest. He searched Clint's gaze intensely, but the archer was giving nothing away. He was going to make Phil drag it out of him – what else was new?

"What are you talking about? What other attempts?"

Clint looked down at his hands and chewed the inside of his lip for a moment. Finally he sighed and raised his eyes to Phil's again.

"The Andes for starters – he admitted to pushing for me to get that assignment because he hoped I'd end up just as dead as the first team they'd sent."

Phil felt suddenly light headed. The Andes signified one of his worst nightmares. Clint had been so sick with fever, so close to fading away…it still haunted Phil to this day. He'd  _known_  something had to have been off for them to give an assignment like the Orion mission to a rookie. But he'd never have thought the Council would act in anyway but a professional one. He'd never dreamed a man in a position like Williams' would let himself get dragged down by revenge.

Clint didn't give him more than a few moments to process the new information before he continued.

"Then, of course, there was Uzbekistan."

And the hits just kept coming.

Clint's tone appeared casual on the surface, but there was an undercurrent of emotion that Phil couldn't miss and that Clint couldn't hide.

Uzbekistan.

It still followed both of them – even after nearly four years. It still haunted both of their dreams.

"What did he…how did…" Phil shook his head and reached to pinch the bridge of his nose. He couldn't remember a time he'd been so knocked off kilter that he couldn't even form a coherent sentence. Luckily, Clint could practically read his mind most days, and he answered the question Phil was trying to ask.

"That merc team – Williams put them there."

Phil felt his hands fist in his sheets. Clint had been  _brutally_  tortured on that mission. The physical damage done was second only to what had happened in Cairo – but Clint's heart hadn't stopped in Cairo. And that one fact was what put Uzbekistan in the lead for 'worst day of Phil's life.'

"Said he wanted me to suffer."

It explained  _everything_. It explained the pointless torture. It explained the mystery mercenary team. It explained how they knew not to take the chance of giving any opening for Clint to escape. It explained a simple, scripted 'watch and report' assignment turning into a completely derailed disaster.

 _God_ …what if Williams  _hadn't_  wanted Clint to suffer? What if just killing him had been enough? They'd come closer to that than they ever realized and that realization was terrifying.

Clint survived – was ultimately spared – because of Williams' hate.  _Because_  that hate ran so deep.

"Guess I got lucky that he hated me so much."

Phil shook his head again – shaking off the disconcertion of Clint echoing his thoughts. He finally forced himself to speak – couldn't take anymore of the strange mixtures of emotion in Clint's voice. He was trying to play it off – make out like it wasn't all that big a deal for him. But it  _was_  – Phil could hear that in his voice even if no one else in the world could.

"Jesus, Clint…if I'd have known…"

He'd have hunted Williams down. He'd have killed the son of a bitch before the situation ever got to where it was now. To hell with kill orders and protocols – if he'd have known Williams was behind the Andes…behind  _Uzbekistan_ …

Clint's lips quirked into a small, warm – if not slightly shadowed – smile. And Phil knew the archer was reading his mind again.

"I know, Phil."

Phil shook his head. It wasn't enough – not this late in the game. Not when it had been seven years and had come to  _four_  failed attempts to kill someone that was  _his_ to protect. It wasn't enough to make late promises of protection…not when he'd already failed so badly.

He could see reassurances and absolutions building in Clint's eyes. Clint never  _could_  let him get away with blaming himself for something. In his world, Clint was the only one not worthy of absolution.

Phil had to change the subject. Couldn't bear to hear Clint tell him it was okay – that it wasn't his fault. He was supposed to  _protect_  him. He'd failed. He didn't deserve or want absolution from that.

"Is that why you broke your finger with his rib? Because he admitted to all of that?"

He doubted it was. Clint had probably taken that revelation with nothing but a shamed gaze. He never had been one to mount his own defense – was more prone to accept blame without argument. But it was the best segue Phil could come up with for the moment.

Clint's eyes landed on his with a sudden intensity Phil wasn't expecting.

"No."

Phil frowned. Jesus, it was like pulling water from a stone.

"Then why…"

Clint cut him off – answering the question before Phil could fully get it out. And that answer…it shook Phil to his core.

"I thought you were dead."

Phil felt the air leave his lungs in a painful rush. He hadn't  _died_  – not even in surgery, not that he knew of. How… _why_  had Clint ever been under the impression that he had? He  _knew_  what that felt like – had felt it years ago in Cairo. That certainty that Clint was gone – was _dead_ …it had nearly ripped him apart.

They had  _years_  more history between them now and Clint had thought…

"Jesus, Clint."

The archer's brow furrowed and he looked away.

"I saw black…would have beat him to death with my bare hands right then and never would have regretted it."

"But you didn't." Phil knew that. Fury had told him Clint had executed Williams on orders from the Council – hadn't beaten him to death in a blind rage.

"No." Clint agreed, looking again at his splinted finger and bruised knuckles.

"Why?"

"Well, you  _weren't_  dead." Clint arched an eyebrow at him – as if that should have been the obvious answer.

"And you figured that out in the heat of the moment?" Phil let all his incredulous doubt seep into his tone. There was no way it had played out like that – not if Clint was seeing 'black' as he claimed.

"No." Clint agreed again, this time a small smirk quirking his lips. "I saw red."

Phil blinked – wondering suddenly if his brain was more scrambled than he thought. Clint seemed to read his confusion and his smirk grew into a slight smile.

"Natasha." There was a little guilt in Clint's smile now – like he'd been messing with Phil on purpose, talking in riddles just to see Phil's head spin.

That was the pain in the ass he knew and loved. But he also knew it was a cover – a defense mechanism.

"You okay?" Because  _he_  hadn't been, when he'd thought  _Clint_ was dead – not even when it had been proven that he wasn't.

That question brought on another slight furrow in Clint's brow and sent his eyes away from Phil's. It took a moment, but he answered without Phil having to prompt him again. But when he did there was lingering pain and fear in his tone and such painful  _sincerity_ that Phil wanted nothing more than to wrap him in a hug.

"I will be…eventually." Then through what seemed to be pure force of will, Clint painted the smirk back on and looked back at him. "So long as you stay  _not_  dead."

But Phil wasn't up to dancing around issues for Clint's sake – wasn't up for their slow circling towards the real root of the problems. He didn't know how Clint did it when he was where Phil was now. Injured and flat on his back, Clint always found the strength to put up fronts.

Phil didn't have it in him, didn't have the strength or energy to play any more games.

"And what are you gonna do – if one day I do?"

He might as well have slapped him for the shock and sudden pain on Clint's face.

"Phil…" there was betrayal in his tone – like he couldn't believe Phil was forcing  _this_  issue of all the issues they had to work through. The one issue Phil knew would break Clint if given the chance – the only one Clint might _let_  break him…which was why they had to deal with it now, before that could happen.

"You gonna let yourself see  _'black'_? You gonna become what you used to be?" he knew his tone was harsh – maybe even a little accusing. But he knew – and he knew  _Clint_ knew – that if he had killed Williams in that black rage, he  _wouldn't_  have regretted it. He would have kept himself in that darkness so that he wouldn't  _have to_  regret it.

And that was terrifying. It was too close to the nearly soulless contract assassin Phil had fought so hard to save.

"Phil, I wouldn't have…" Clint stopped his defense, maybe realized it wasn't true.

"Wouldn't have what? Killed him? You just told me you would have, that you wouldn't have regretted it. You think just because I lived, it erases all of that?"

Shame rose in the archer's eyes, but Phil forced himself to go on.

"You think that it would have made you better than him? It would have made you the  _same_."

He watched that hit  _hard_  – watched pain filter through Clint's expression before it hardened.

"I'm not the same as  _Williams_." He spat the name like it was poison on his tongue.

"No, you're _not."_ Phil leaned his head to keep Clint's gaze when he tried to look away. "But revenge is revenge no matter who's wearing it. If you'd murdered him in  _my_  name – like he murdered people in his daughter's – it would have made you no better than he was."

"But I  _didn't_." Clint shot back sharply. "I know the difference between revenge and justice,  _hell,_  I taught Williams the lesson myself. I _didn't_  kill him because of  _you_."

"No, you didn't…but we both know that's only because I survived."

Clint looked away, breathing like he'd run back to back marathons, and he didn't deny it.

Phil was hitting hard, he knew he was. But he  _had_  to get through. But now it was time to temper those hard hits with a gentler tone. So he grimaced and reached forward, wrapping his hand around Clint's forearm where it rested on the bed.

"You can't let yourself go down that road, Clint. No matter what happens. You have to promise me that you'll  _never_  go down that road – that you'll never lose yourself in that darkness again. That you'll always keep moving forward, even if I'm not there."

Clint pulled his arm out of Phil's grip and stood, backing away from him. He seemed to realize that this wasn't just about avenging Phil's death anymore. Phil was pushing farther, was asking even more.

Now it was about going on without him.

Clint kept backing away until he was just a few paces from the wall.

"How can you ask me to promise that? Could  _you_? Could you promise me the same thing?"

Phil knew he couldn't. He liked to think that if it came to that he would  _try_  to go on – try to at least keep living. But Clint was his entire world. Going on without him just wasn't something Phil was sure he'd know how to do. And maybe Clint wouldn't either...but Phil had to believe he'd figure it out. Because Phil  _wasn't_  Clint's entire world – not anymore. He had Natasha now. He had a purpose he didn't even know about yet. A life as a hero – as an Avenger.

And when that purpose was realized, Clint  _would_  be able to go on without him. He'd  _have_  to.

The archer must have read his answer in his silence because he looked suddenly mutinous.

"Then how can you ask  _me_ to? What would I be here, without  _you_?"

The answer to that was easy.

"A hero."

" _What_?" Clint looked so confused and so frustrated as he shook his head like Phil had lost his mind.

"It's what you've always been – from the moment you walked to me across that tarmac in Germany. You're a hero – who puts the lives of others above his own life – above his own  _soul_. You do the work that no one else can stomach and you pay a  _price."_

He paid with a piece of his soul – every time he pulled a trigger or loosed an arrow. He paid with the pieces of his soul he'd lost while he'd unknowingly trained for a year as a contract killer – trained to one day become SHIELD's top covert assassin.

"You're not the villain of your story, Clint – and the time is going to come when you'll finally see that, when it'll be made clear."

The day the finally activated the Avengers Initiative – the day the read in the first name on that list.

"What are you talking about?" Clint looked confused and tired all at once. Because he didn't know yet – didn't know what his ultimate purpose was. He didn't know the Avengers Initiative existed – didn't know his name had been the only one on the list for a long time. Natasha's name was on it now too. They were looking into adding another – Tony Stark .

But that wasn't a conversation to have now – not when they were still so far from that Initiative going active.

"It doesn't matter. What matters is you realizing that you _can_ go on without me – but you have to  _want_  to."

"And what if I don't _want_  to?" It was said in a low tone – a dangerous tone – a tone that meant Phil had to be very careful how he answered.

"You  _have_  to. Because I'm not the only one in your life anymore. Maybe you're okay with giving up  _your_  soul – with walking back into that darkness with open arms, with making it so you don't have to feel anymore. But would you do that to  _her_?"

Clint's jaw clenched and his eyes were suddenly deeply pained.

"She'd follow you, Clint – wherever you went. You know that." He watched Clint's breaths leave him in harsh pants as he turned away, trying to shut Phil's words out. "Would you ask her to give up  _her_  soul, just because you don't want yours?"

He knew what the answer would be. Clint had once risked everything for the sake of Natasha's soul. Her shot at redemption meant more to him than his own. He would never ask her to go back into a world of darkness, not even to ease his own pain.

"So what am I supposed to do?" Clint still didn't face him – maybe couldn't.

"You're supposed to know that I will  _always_  do everything in my power to stay with you – to keep fighting by your side. And that  _if_  the day ever comes that I'm  _not_ … I need to know that you'll keep fighting for both of us."

"Keep fighting…" Clint spoke over his shoulder, still didn't turn, " _without_  you."

He said it like the idea was insane – was impossible. It both warmed Phil and broke his heart.

"I'm not saying it'll happen. I hope to God I grow into an old man and get to watch you do the same…but you know better than anyone that we don't live in a world of hopes and dreams. I know it's not fair – that I shouldn't ask you to promise me something I can't even promise you in return – but I  _need_  you to."

"Why?" Clint turned then – and Phil almost wished he hadn't.

There were tears in Clint's eyes – tears Phil had caused and that he knew would never fall. There was pain and fear in every part of Clint's expression and his eyes were begging,  _begging_  Phil not to make him do this.

Because Clint kept his word. He didn't make promises he couldn't keep. Trust was too important to him. He didn't give it out blindly and he took the measure of it people put in him very seriously.

"Because I need to know that you'll be okay!" Phil felt his voice start to rise, but didn't take the time to check it or to keep the emotion out of it. "I need to know that you won't give up on everything you've built here – everything I've helped you build! I  _need_  that, Clint."

Clint backed away from him again until his shoulders hit the wall – then he dropped his head back until it thudded against the metal and closed his eyes.

Phil waited.

This wasn't some small promise he was asking for – this was huge. It was the biggest thing he'd ever asked of Clint. It was selfish and it wasn't fair. But he was counting on one little fact – the fact that Clint would do, and  _had done_  – anything for him. He never thought he'd see the day he abused that devotion like he was doing now.

Finally, the archer rolled his head on the metal wall and then dropped his chin down to his chest.

"Okay."

It was quiet and full of defeat, but it was what Phil wanted to hear. That didn't make him feel any better about it. If anything, the tone made him feel worse.

Clint kept his head down, didn't raise his gaze.

"I won't go backwards. I won't take Natasha backwards with me." He swallowed thickly and finally looked up, defeat and pain were heavy in his gaze – so heavy that Phil had to fight not to look away. "I'll keep fighting."

Phil wished this victory felt more like one, but it didn't. It felt dirty and cruel.

"But you have to promise  _me_  something."

Phil shook his head.

"Clint, I can't promise the same th-"

Clint cut his hand through the air and stalked a step closer.

"No – that's not what I want."

Phil frowned warily.

"Then what?"

"I want you to promise that you'll do whatever it takes to keep me from having to keep that promise."

Phil held Clint's gaze.

"I promise that I'll always do whatever is in my power to be here for you, Clint."

Clint shook his head.

"That's not what I asked."

Phil stared at him seriously.

"I know."

Clint shook his head and looked away. Phil sighed and tried to explain.

"You want me to promise not to put myself in danger – not to run towards the same fights you run towards. I can't do that – not and still be the man you know."

Clint clenched his jaw and closed his eyes tightly. After several long, tensely silent moments he blew out a breath and faced Phil again – resolve now hardening in his eyes.

"Then I guess I'll just have to keep your ass alive  _myself_."

It was a weighted promise – one that immediately made Phil fear he'd have another Croatia situation on his hands one day. But he had to give the kid something.

So Phil forced a quirk into his lips.

"You assigning yourself bodyguard detail? You hate bodyguard detail. You said it was boring."

Clint's expression turned deadpan and it made Phil smile – for real this time.

"I'll learn to love it." And damn if his tone didn't perfectly match that deadpan expression. Then Clint's expression softened and he smirked slightly. "Besides…I said that  _before_  Moreau…and we both know how  _boring_  that one turned out."

Phil smiled wider and watched Clint sink wearily back into his chair. Phil almost gave him a moment to rest, but knew better than to retreat when he'd already gained ground. And if anything ever deserved a battlefield analogy, it was dealing with Clint's emotions.

_So next on the docket…_

"So…" Phil waited until Clint looked at him, "what were you dreaming about?"

Clint blinked in vague confusion.

"Huh?"

"You woke up flailing."

Because, really, that was evidence enough and they both knew it.

Clint scowled and scratched at the edge of a bandage on his arm.

"Team Williams was tag-teaming it."

Phil nodded slowly – waiting for more.

Nothing else came. Instead, Clint's expression grew terrifyingly intense and darkly introspective.

"Clint…" He barely got the prodding, cajoling word out before Clint was interrupting him.

"I made it right."

Phil wasn't sure who he was trying to convince – because by his tone, Clint wasn't all that certain of that point.

"You went after Maskov." It wasn't a question. Phil had known the moment Dan had said Clint was 'taking care of unfinished business' that his archer was on his way to Athens.

"I made it  _right_."

"But it's not enough, is it?"

Clint's lips curled into a sad ghost of his usual smirk and Phil returned it in kind.

"It never will be."

It wasn't the first time they'd had a conversation like this. Their first had been  _years_  ago – in the range and it had ended with Phil taking away Clint's bow like he was eight years old instead of eighteen. And Clint  _still_  judged himself with that same harsh ruthlessness, even after everything he'd done to try and make up for his teenage mistakes. It had cut Phil to his core from day damn one to realize that…and it still cut deep now.

"You need to let it go, Clint. You need to let Brianna go."

Clint blinked, shocked but the blunt statement.

"I  _can't_."

"Try harder."

Clint shook his head angrily.

"Maybe I don't  _want_  to let her go."

"Why?" Phil nearly growled. "You've done everything you can to make it right – you said so yourself."

"But…"

"No! No 'but'! You burned that ledger a month ago. You put that part of your life behind you!"

"No,  _you_  did!"

Phil drew back sharply and Clint all but shot out the chair – angrily pointing a finger at Phil's chest.

" _You_  put it behind you, Phil! And for a half a breath that was enough for me too. But I  _can't_. I can't let go of what I did! I can't just let myself off the hook!"

"Why? You've paid for it –  _over and over_! Why can't you just forgive yourself?"

"Because I don't deserve it!"

Phil stared at him in shock – watching as Clint turned away and worked to get himself back under control. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and carried such defeat and sorrow, that Phil's chest constricted.

"I killed 287 people, Phil. Two  _hundred_  and eighty seven – Brianna Williams was just  _one_  of those. I will  _never_  be able to do enough good to make up for that much evil."

Phil wanted to throttle him.

"You don't forgive yourself, so no one else should either? Is that it? Well,  _I_ forgive you. And I'd bet my life that there are more than a few of those 287 that would forgive you too if they knew the man you were now. Maybe even  _Brianna_  would forgive you."

He watched Clint shake his head and it just fueled the fire in him.

"You think regret doesn't mean anything? You think that wishing you could take it back doesn't tip the scales? I  _know_  if you could you would give your life in a second if it meant you could give life back to even  _one_  of those names. You're in such a hurry to condemn your soul, you don't let yourself see what you've become. You are a  _good_  man – the best I know."

Clint's shoulders were bunched up in tension and he stayed silent. It felt like talking to a brick wall – a silent, immovable brick wall. Time to change tactics.

"Would you condemn Natasha for the sins of  _her_  past?"

It landed like a physical blow. Clint spun on his heel so quickly he had to reach for the back of his chair to keep his body from betraying him and sending him to the floor.

" _Don't_  talk about her like that."

"Make up your mind, Clint! Do you believe in redemption or not? Because if you don't, then what the hell is the point?"

Fire lit Clint's eyes.

"I believe in redemption."

"Just not for yourself?" Phil challenged harshly.

"She never had a choice! I  _did_!"

"You think she didn't have a choice? There's  _always_  a choice!"

And there was – Natasha had chosen survival.  _That_  had been her choice. He watched the reality of that truth hit home and Clint sank back into the chair once again.

"You still think she deserves a shot at redemption?"

Clint clenched his jaw tightly.

"Of course I do."

"But  _you_  don't?"

He could see the truth of it in Clint's eyes and Clint didn't refute the statement.

"Then maybe you should leave the judgment of  _your_  soul to someone less biased than  _you_."

Clint's shoulders slumped and the fight seemed to drain out of him. If Phil could beat that self hatred out of him with unwavering support and loyalty, he would. He would tell Clint everyday that he'd made it right if that's what it took for the archer to believe it.

"If you do everything you can possibly do and you still don't let it be enough…then why even try at all?"

He watched  _that_  reality sink home and Clint's expression momentarily shattered and he lowered his eyes.

"I can't let myself forget. I can't forget what I was…it's the only way I can be sure I'm not becoming it again."

Phil felt his throat tighten. He'd always known Clint silently feared that – that he feared regressing to what he once was. Because the job SHIELD asked him to do was terrifyingly similar. But Phil had made a point to show the  _differences_  from the beginning. Apparently, that hadn't quite been enough.

"Then don't forget." Phil softened his tone and wished he could reach out and grip Clint's shoulder, squeeze the back of his neck, _something_ , anything to communicate comfort. "Just start to  _forgive_."

For several very long moments, Clint was silent and still. And then he nodded – very slightly – but it was there. Phil felt like leaping for joy.

Instead he just allowed himself a warm smile and raised his left hand.

"C'mere, kid."

Clint raised his eyes slightly, saw the beckoning hand, and moved without further prompting. He folded his leg beneath him on the edge of Phil's bed and let Phil draw him into a hug.

It was almost strange – getting a second hug from Clint in such a short time frame. Physical contact between them was usually limited to shoulder squeezes.

But it had been a  _hell_  of a 48 hours.

And Phil needed it – and given his lack of protest, Clint did too.

He carefully squeezed the back of Clint's neck and spoke into his hair.

"You will  _never_  have to prove anything to me, okay? You never had to make anything right – you never had to redeem yourself. I have never held who you were against you and I never will. You understand me?  _Never_."

Clint nodded against his shoulder, his breath hitching momentarily in his back, and then Phil let him pull away. Predictably, Clint's head was ducked and he didn't meet his eyes.

"Jesus Phil…don't think you're getting monster chick flick moments like this outta me every time you almost die… _geesh,_ next time you'll be wanting to listen to N'Sync and braid my hair."

And Clint wouldn't be Clint if he didn't regain his equilibrium with sarcastic humor.  _That_  was the Clint he knew and loved.

Phil didn't even try to hold back the smile that blossomed on his face.

* * *

End of Chapter Twelve

So technically, THIS chapter isn't the new one = the one I had you wait till Thursday for. This story, as I've been adding the necessary little things I wanted to add, has been growing. So...that being said. It is now FOURTEEN chapters...meaning you still have TWO more :D I have every intention of having 14 ready to go tomorrow, but I am traveling back home to TX today, so I'm not QUITE sure what my time availability will look like...at the worst, you'll have to wait till Saturday :( I promise to make sure to add everything I need to add before posting from here on out lol :D

Now...I think the fact that you got a SECOND Phil and Clint hug earns me some goodwill...and maybe some comments?:D

Your preview is tricky, considering the next chapter isn't completely written yet, but here's a segment of what IS written:

* * *

_"Kid, I know you're past done wanting to talk about all this. I know asking you to rehash it again is pretty much kicking you while you're down. But Dan and Todd – they've been with you in this since it started almost seven years ago."_

_"I know that, Phil." Clint pushed himself up from the chair again and paced across to the small window on the other side of the room._

_Now Phil's tone **was** gentle and Clint was still too damn tired to even feel annoyed by that._

_"Then what is it?"_


	13. I Could Use Some Friends For A Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to RoS13 and indynerdgirl for commenting! RoS13 even commented TWICE :D
> 
> Now - it's time for apologies. I know I said this would be out yesterday, and here we are...a day late. Here are my amazing and totally understandable excuses: food poisoning - it really knocked me on my ass and set me way behind schedule :( And when finally got this done yesterday, my awesome beta had a real job to do and that TOTALLY comes first :). But we're here now! And I think you're gonna like this one! :D
> 
> And lastly: calling all fan-art people. After seeing Noweia's awesome drawing of "the hug", I had a reader suggest I call for anybody that has a talent for that type of thing to see if anyone else wanted to draw scenes from my stories. That would literally MAKE MY LIFE. :D Send me a message or put it in a comment if you're interested!
> 
> Thank you to Kylen for beta-ing this. And also for her incredible patience :) She is Dan's words in this chapter :)
> 
> This story is dedicated to Kylen
> 
> On to Chapter Thirteen...

  
_I am prepared to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the ordeal of meeting me is another matter._   
_**Winston Churchill** _   


* * *

Clint stood at the foot of Phil's bed, arms crossed defiantly across his chest, and face set in scowl. Natasha had arrived with food over an hour ago – had since run off to retrieve pudding. And eating, apparently, had lit a fire under Phil. Had put some pep in his step. Had added fuel to his –

"Clint – stop  _scowling_. It's not that big of a deal."

Clint scowled a little deeper just  _because_. All he got for his – admittedly childish – petulance was a put-upon sigh and an eye roll from Phil.

"Don't you think they'd want to know? That they  _deserve_ to know?"

It was Clint's turn to sigh as he shifted around the bed and eased back down into his chair. The muscles in his back angrily protested being forced to move  _at all_. He was scowling again by the time he settled in the chair and it earned him a hard look from Phil.

"Your face is gonna stick like that."

Clint rolled his eyes – who was being childish  _now?_ – and then forced his expression to smooth. He felt Phil's eyes on him for several long, quiet moments and stubbornly kept his gaze fixed on the splint on his finger. When Phil spoke again, his tone was boarding on gentle.

"Kid, I know you're past done wanting to talk about all this. I know asking you to rehash it again is pretty much kicking you while you're down. But Dan and Todd – they've been with you in this since it started almost seven years ago."

"I know that, Phil." Clint pushed himself up from the chair again and paced across to the small window on the other side of the room.

Now Phil's tone  _was_  gentle and Clint was still too damn tired to even feel annoyed by that.

"Then what is it?"

Clint sighed but didn't reply. Instead, he just stared out the small window into the open air. Something in his stomach twisted – much as it had ten minutes ago when Phil first pitched his bright idea.

" _You need to tell Dan and Todd…tell them_ _ **everything**_."

Everything, of course, meaning the truth about all Williams had done – more specifically Uzbekistan. It wasn't something Clint was particularly looking forward to for a few reasons. For one, he was  _still_  so goddamned tired and his back hurt and he just wanted to put this entire shit storm behind him. He didn't want to talk about it anymore. He didn't want to have to keep thinking about the Andes and Uzbekistan and Budapest and  _New York_. He just wanted to be  _done_.

And if that weren't enough to set him on edge, both men had an extremely personal tie to Clint's to-death-and-back experience.

Bryan had  _been_  there, had been relegated to the proverbial sidelines to keep the hostiles that  _still_  wanted to kill them from succeeding. He'd been forced to stand guard while Phil fought to pull Clint back into the world of the living. He'd been unable to help, unable to do anything but watch and pray.

Then there was Wilson, who'd been stuck on the other end of the phone – who hadn't been  _able_  to be there. He'd only been able to talk Phil through it, sit back, and hope it was enough. The man had been Clint's primary doctor since the Andes and had seen him through more than one nearly fatal injury. 'Sit back and hope' just wasn't something he was used to having to do.

It was going to hit both of them hard. He knew that because he knew  _them_. He knew – even if he forgot sometimes – that he meant something to them. He knew that this kind of revelation so close on the heels of everything that had happened in the last month – Budapest and then this hell-sent attack on the base – it was going to shake them.

But those weren't the only reasons Clint was digging his heels in and glaring out windows.

He'd told Bryan about Brianna. Well, the man _had_  cornered him when he was at one of his lowest moments and demanded the entire story upon threat of getting  _'really pissed off',_ but he'd told him.

He hadn't told Wilson. And now he'd have to.

He knew the doctor  _knew_  what Clint had done before SHIELD. He'd told the doctor himself years ago. But he'd never gone into detail, never told him the stories behind the shadows Clint knew the man saw in his eyes. Wilson  _definitely_  didn't know that the whole reason Williams had started all of this was because of something Clint had done.

And Clint didn't want to tell him. He didn't want  _another_ person that mattered in his life to learn the truth behind his darkest, dirtiest not-so-secret secret. Because for as much as Wilson _knew_  what Clint had been, actually hearing a name, learning a story…it made it painfully, undeniably  _real._

And Clint wasn't sure he was ready to find out what that would mean for his friendship with Wilson. Part of him believed, was convinced even, that Wilson wouldn't care. Would do nothing but rant and rave that Clint hadn't deserved  _any_  of this.

But an equally persistent and convincing part was absolutely terrified that the man would be disappointed. Would look at Clint and realize it was all  _his_  fault – all of this. Natasha nearly dying in Budapest. Phil nearly dying in the attack. All the people that  _did_  die in the attack.

Clint wasn't sure if he could take it if  _that_  part was the one that had it right.

"Clint?"

He actually flinched in surprise. Was he still  _that_  far off his game? Apparently one solid block of sleep didn't make up for what had ultimately amounted to about 72 hours of nothing more than two or three hours of shut eye. Even his damned nightmares had conspired against him – like his subconscious had  _known_ he'd need all the rest he could get and just decided it was going to screw him over before the new chapter to this whole mess had started.

"Clint."

Clint opened his eyes – the worry in Phil's tone drawing his attention – and saw his own fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn't remember raising his hand to his face, but it probably had something to do with the headache he felt pulsing behind his eyes now. He also didn't remember closing his eyes and couldn't think of a reason why he would have.

"Jesus,  _look_   _at me_ , Clint."

Clint turned and the room spun. His hand caught the back of Natasha's abandon chair – situated on the opposite side of Phil's bed from the one Clint usually occupied – and it gave him the balance he needed until the world righted itself.

"Hey!"

He heard fingers snap together. As soon as his eyes hit Phil's, the man spoke again.

"Put your ass in that chair and put your head down,  _now_."

"I'm fi-"

"That wasn't phrased as a  _suggestion_ , Clint." Clint grimaced at the mixture of Phil's 'hard ass' tone and his 'worried shit-less' tone. NOT good. "You've got until the next breath to do it or I'm calling a nurse."

 _That_  tone – it was  _all_ hard-ass. Clint rounded Natasha's chair and sat. He braced his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

"You gonna work on getting your breathing under control anytime soon?"

Clint opened his mouth to snap something back – the sarcasm and barely-hidden anger in Phil's tone grinding on his nerves – but he closed it just as quickly when he realized what the man had just said.

His breathing? What the h…

 _Oh_.

His breaths were coming in too-short, too-deep gasps and there were tiny little gray spots encroaching on his vision. When had _that_  started? He wasn't exactly sure. Immediately, he manually slowed his next breath – forced it to come in slow and long. He blew it out just as slowly and then forced his body to do it again and  _again_.

He heard Phil blow out a deep breath of his own and when he spoke again, his tone had softened.

"Better?"

Clint nodded into his hands and then sat back in the chair.

"I don't even…" he swallowed scrubbing his hands down his face and then letting them drop bonelessly onto his thighs. "What happened?"

Phil eyed him for a moment before slowly relaxing against his pillows again.

"You walked to the window, didn't move for a few seconds, and then started hyperventilating. It was like a panic attack."

Clint frowned. He wasn't prone to panic, much less panic attacks.  _Jesus_ , he was farther off his game than he thought if just  _thinking_  about all this shit had set him off.

"You've been through a lot."

And apparently Phil's tendency to read his thoughts was still as true as ever. Clint sighed and rubbed his hand back and forth through his hair, a pointless, fidgety gesture. The gesture drew a furrow into Phil's brow and Clint knew it was because he wasn't any more prone to pointless, fidgety gestures than he was panic.

"Whatever worst case scenario you're imagining right now, it's not going to be that bad."

Imagining worst case scenarios when it came to emotional crap – that  _was_ something he was prone to. And Phil knew it too, which was why the man's gaze was softening by the second.

"I just…" Clint blew out a breath and met Phil's eyes. "What if -"

The door swung open and Natasha strode in, tossing a plastic cup of pudding ahead of her. Clint didn't move anything but his hand and caught it before it hit his face. Her eyes narrowed at him for a moment as she set a second pudding cup down on Phil's bed table. Concern creased her brow and rose in her eyes and Clint suddenly wondered how much of what he was thinking was  _showing_  at the moment.

"You okay?"

Clint schooled his expression, but didn't have a chance to reply – probably a good thing because 'I'm fine' tended to garner a violent reaction from her these days – before the door swung open again.

"Since when do we have pow-wows in the infirmary?" Todd Bryan ambled through the door.

Clint rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair, tracking Natasha's progress as she rounded the foot of the bed. She was still eyeing him in concern, and continued to do so even as she sat on the bed next to Phil's leg – noticeably careful not to jar the bed, Phil's injured leg, or the pillow it was resting on.

"What, no wise-cracks about using the term 'pow-wow?' I practically teed that one up for you, kid."

Clint tossed him a mild glare, but  _again_  didn't get a chance to reply before the door opened for a  _third_ time.

"Someone gonna give me a clue as to what the hell is going on?" Dan Wilson raised an eyebrow at Clint, noticeably eyed him up and down, and then shook his head. "And no offense, Barton, but you look like shit."

Clint eyed the door, half expecting someone else to barge in the moment he geared up for a response.

"What, no witty comeback?"

Clint turned his gaze back to Wilson.

"Well, Wilson, normally I'd rattle off something about a pot and a kettle or snappily direct you to look in a mirror, but seeing as you  _always_ look like shit, I figured why point out the obvious." He shifted his eyes to Bryan. "And nobody outside of third graders in Indian Guides uses the term 'pow-wow' so that answers my lingering question about your mental and emotional age."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but Bryan smirked and was the first to reply.

"Looks like you're feeling better."

More like Clint knew how to keep up appearances – was an expert at it.

Bryan leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. Wilson dropped down into Clint's vacant chair with a sigh. The doctor still looked closer to tired than not, but if appearances were anything to go by, he'd gotten a some rest over the past fourteen hours or so since Clint had seen him last.

"You finally get some rest, Dan?" And it was just like Phil to ask about someone else when  _he_  was the one in the hospital bed.

Dan nodded.

"Rachel came and threatened me until I made myself scarce for a while. With all the extra staff from the other bases, we're busting at the seams right now. Besides…" Dan chuckled slightly, and looked down at the floor, "Rachel also told me to get out before they pushed me out. So…"

Knowing Braxton, Clint was pretty sure it was probably in Wilson's immanent best interest to do what she wanted anyway – extra staff aside.

"I was able to grab about nine hours before the intercom in my temporary quarters started buzzing." Wilson shot a side-long look at Natasha.

Clint arched an eyebrow at her and she arched her own right back in challenge. So  _that_  was why she cut out to go get pudding practically the second Clint had come back from a bathroom break. Clint's next scolding look went to Phil, who shrugged, looking about as unapologetic as Tasha had.

Apparently he'd never really had much say in whether or not this conversation happened. Phil 'suggesting' it had just been for show.

"So?" Wilson prodded.

Clint shifted his eyes to Phil's – looking for reassurance? A way out? He wasn't certain. His handler nodded very slightly and Clint drew in a fortifying breath. He shifted his chair forward and leaned to rest his forearms on Phil's bed, clasping his hands together as best he could with a splinted finger.

If that put him within easy reaching distance of Phil's historically reassuring hand…that was neither here nor there.

He looked first to Bryan, then to Wilson and that's where his gaze stayed as he began.

"You know about Williams – the council member that paid the mercenaries to attack SHIELD."

It wasn't a question and he knew neither would take it as such, so he didn't wait for a response before continuing.

"You also know about Budapest and I'm guessing you've connected," his eyes shifted to Bryan, "or have been told, that he was behind that too."

Bryan's chin dipped and his eyes took on a knowing and encouraging gleam – like he knew where Clint was going with this. But seeing that gleam and knowing that Bryan  _didn't_  know everything like he thought he did – that there were a few new details he was about to learn – it just made this harder.

So he looked back at Wilson, whose gaze was cautious as he slowly crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Clint to go on.

"But you  _don't_  know about the two other attempts he made." Clint swallowed thickly and looked again to Phil, begging one last time not to make him do this. But Phil's gaze was firm and he nodded once again. So Clint drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly as he blew it out. "And you don't know  _why_  he targeted me in the first place."

He opened his eyes and looked straight at Wilson – the only one in the room that  _didn't_  actually know that part of the story.

"There were other attempts?" Bryan's voice was pitched low and dangerous – a firm reminder that he had once been a field agent before he was a trainer. Clint met his eyes and nodded once.

"The son of a bitch had a reason  _why_?"

Clint's eyes flew to Wilson's and for a moment he was absolutely certain he couldn't do this – couldn't tell Wilson the truth. The doctor's tone was just  _flat_. There wasn't any anger there or accusation. Just…shock.

But it was enough that Clint nearly backed out.

Then a hand wrapped around his forearm.

He looked again to Phil and the grip on his forearm tightened – a damn reassuring hand and damn reassuring eyes. A boot nudged suddenly against his leg and his eyes shifted to Natasha. There was reassurance in  _her_  gaze too but there was also understanding.

She  _knew_  – better than even Phil ever would – what telling this story meant. She gave him a nod so slight, he was sure he was the only one who saw it. But it gave him the strength to look back at his two friends.

"There were two other attempts. The first was the Orion mission in the Andes."

Bryan straightened abruptly from the wall – the movement so sudden that Clint was momentarily struck silent.

* * *

Todd couldn't believe it. He'd  _known_  there was something wrong about the Andes. He'd ranted and raved to Fury behind closed  _several_  times in the weeks of preparation leading up to Barton's departure for that mission.

The young man may have been a prodigy in everything covert and deadly, but he'd been nothing but a  _kid_ , a rookie. Handing him a mission that dangerous – one that had already killed an entire team – it had felt  _wrong_ on so many levels.

But the Council had assigned it themselves and what the hell could Todd have said to that? Not that he hadn't said  _plenty_  to Fury, but in the end it hadn't mattered. The youngest agent in the history of SHIELD had eventually left to handle – and eventually accomplish through great harm to himself – one of the most dangerous missions on file at the time.

"He was behind the fucking  _Andes?_ " Todd didn't really need him to say it again. He just…he just couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe the Council had gone  _that_  far – or rather, had let Williams go that far.

"Williams lit a match, then fanned the flame until they agreed. Actually played up my talents," Barton made a sour face, "ironically enough."

"Kid, you nearly  _died_."

Barton's expression darkened and with it so did his tone.

"I remember."

Todd closed his eyes and drew in a calming breath. Of course the archer remembered. He  _had_ been the one to nearly die after all. But god _damnit._  The  _fucking_  Andes.

"If that one pisses you off, this one'll probably send you nuclear."

Todd snapped his eyes open – and met Barton's gaze.

He knew what the kid was going to say before he ever said the word.

"Uzbekistan."

From his chair, Dan sucked in a sharp breath, hands tightening into fists where they rested on his thighs.

Todd, for his part, suddenly found his knees unwilling to offer him full support and had to reach for the wall to stay upright. For as much as he'd known what Barton was going to say a moment before he said it, he still wasn't ready to hear it confirmed.

Uzbekistan.

He had his own set of haunting nightmares about that day – probably nowhere near the caliber of Barton or Phil's, but nightmares all the same. He'd  _been_  there. He'd been  _right_  there and he'd had to stand at the goddamned  _door_  like a guard dog.

He had just as much first-aid training as Phil – hell, maybe even more with all the classes he'd taught on the subject. He could have  _helped_  – could have done  _something_. But in the end all he'd been able to do was cover the hallway and hope and pray that Barton still had enough fight left in him to kick death in the teeth one more time.

It had been some of the longest and worst minutes of his life – second only to the moment he found out his father and sister had been killed in a drive-by shooting.

He'd lost agents over the years – seen men and women he'd trained leave and never come back. But no one – never once in his tenure at SHIELD – no one had ever gotten to him like Barton. Maybe it was because the archer was so goddamned young. Maybe it was because the kid had a hidden sense of humor that turned up when everybody least expected it. Or because he could outshoot anyone and  _everyone_  on his base – or  _any_  base. Or because he could put men twice his size on the mat without breaking a sweat. Or because he could run faster and do parkour faster than anyone Todd had ever seen.

Or maybe it was because for as young as Barton had been, he hadn't really been young at all. Maybe it was because he could tell just by looking at him that the kid had seen too much, been through too much in his short life. Maybe it was because in the middle of the night, while Todd was doing paperwork in his office, one young man was habitually running around the training gym like a jackrabbit on crack, running away from demons that he didn't want to talk about.

And Todd had just known that this kid was  _different_  – he'd  _needed_  people in his life no matter how much he steadfastly tried to push them away. Todd had decided  _long_  ago to be one of those people, whether Barton knew it or not.

So when the archer had been laying dead on that concrete and he  _hadn't_  been able to help, it was like losing part of his family all over again.

 _Williams_  had done that. Williams had paid to have him tortured and literally  _killed_  for  _what_? Revenge? Revenge for a daughter Barton had killed as a contract assassin when it couldn't have been farther from personal. That sounded more like insanity than revenge and it sounded more like trying to find someone to blame than justice.

Todd jumped slightly when Dan stood abruptly from his chair and paced to the wall. He stayed facing it for a moment before visibly fortifying himself and turning back.

"You said there was a why?"

Dan's tone was hard, but Todd could hear an undercurrent of emotion – barely restrained and violent emotion. Todd could relate. He was feeling something pretty similar.

Barton, though, for all his usual perceptiveness, was apparently still too far off his game to hear what Todd had and looked suddenly like a deer caught in the headlights. Todd saw the muscles in Phil's hand contract where it was wrapped around Barton's arm and the gesture seemed to spur the kid to reply.

"I…" Barton swallowed thickly and kept his gaze locked on Dan's. "When I…" Barton closed his eyes and shook his head, blowing out a sharp breath. Then opened his eyes again and fixed them on Dan once more, speaking in a forced, but level, tone. "In 2003, I took a contract in Paris." Shame grew his eyes, followed quickly by something that looked like apprehension _._  "All I was given was a name, a picture, and a location. I didn't ask who she was and they didn't tell me. I  _never_  asked." Barton's gaze shifted to Phil suddenly, growing distant with some memory. "I never wanted to know."

Barton visibly shook himself out whatever memory he'd lost himself in and his eyes met Dan's again. The doctor's breathing had started to increase in pace, Todd could hear it because he was only standing a few feet away. His arms were crossed over his chest and there was nothing casual about the way he was standing. He'd started to figure out where this was going, Todd could tell.

"Her name was Brianna."

Saying the name seemed to break something in Barton's usual steel strong defenses because for a brief moment everything from his eyes to his expression shattered. Even his tone was shaken as he went on.

"She was his daughter."

And then just as quickly those defenses were forced back into place. Barton had to drop his gaze and lower his head for a moment to accomplish it, but it only took seconds and he was back to being unbreakable Barton.

That was when Dan finally reacted, a look of disbelief knotting his features.

"Are you fucking kidding me? You killed his  _daughter_?"

The question, and the hard, uncompromising tone it was spoken in, hit Barton like a visible blow. And then it was like the lights went out. Barton shut down right before their eyes and he wasn't just guarded anymore, he was Fort Knox. Todd hadn't seen that look since those first days of training almost seven years ago.

He saw Phil's hand go almost white around the kid's forearm and Romanoff actually made a snarling type sound as she glared at Dan. Todd he pushed himself away from the wall and stepped forward in case anybody tried anything less than friendly.

"Dan." Phil's tone was harder than stone, the proverbial mama-bear – or papa-bear in this case – rising in defense of her cub.

"What?" Dan snapped, this time the emotion in his tone was plain for everyone to hear. It made Todd's own hackles lower. Dan wasn't  _blaming_  Barton – of  _course_  he wasn't. It was fucking Dan Wilson. He was just as shocked and overwhelmed as Todd had been when Barton first told him.

The difference was that Dan wasn't a field agent, wasn't used to talk of murder and missions. He cleaned up the messes made by those missions and very rarely found out the details surrounding them.

He was in  _shock_  and thinking back that had been plain in the tone he'd spoken in. Dan Wilson's tone could get angry, it could get mocking, sarcastic, amused, and even gentle. But just plain _hard_? Flat with  _lack_  of emotion – that just wasn't normal.

But Barton's perceptiveness being what it was at the moment, he'd missed that little fact completely. And Phil – being the overprotective softie he was when it came to Barton – was immediately going on the defensive. And Romanoff was following suit with her typical amount of fire.

That left Todd to play peace keeper. What else was new?

"Whatever he did, Barton didn't deserve any of this." He made sure to keep his tone level and firm, but not harsh. He needed Dan to snap out of whatever overwhelmed shock he was in and he needed the lights to come back on in Barton's eyes.

Dan flinched like Todd had slapped him and blinked several times, eyes coming to rest on the currently stone-faced, nobody-home-to-answer-the-door Barton. And it was like somebody pulled a plug in the doctor. His entire posture sagged as he realized what he'd said and how it had been interpreted.

As accusation. As justification for what Williams had done.

"Shit, kid…" Dan took a halting step forward. "I didn't…" He raised his hands and dropped them back to his side in a helpless gesture when Barton's gaze stayed firmly on the edge of Phil's blanket. Then Dan drew in a deep breath, marched right around the bed – even braved passing within reaching distance of Romanoff – to crouch next to Barton.

The archer remained stiff as stone even as the doctor put a hand on his shoulder.

"I don't care  _what_  was done  _then._  I care  _who_  you are,  _now_. Who you've become." Dan's voice tightened with emotion he wasn't even trying to hide anymore. "You didn't … you didn't deserve any of this."

Something flickered in Barton's expression and his eyes shifted to meet Dan's for barely a moment before they dropped down to study his hands. The kid nodded slightly though, so Todd knew Dan had been heard.

Dan stood then and without another word, or a glance at anyone, walked out of the room.

Todd watched the muscles of his friend's back coil and hitch as he all but fled and then he looked back to the trio at the bed.

"You got him?" Todd nodded at Barton.

The scathing looks he got from  _both_  Phil and Romanoff made him regret asking. So he just put a hand up in defense and followed after Dan.

* * *

Dan staggered out of the room, only to have to stop and brace his hand on the wall almost immediately.

Good  _God_.

All of that…everything Barton had just… _Jesus_ …

A hand suddenly latched onto his elbow and pulled him away from the wall, down the hall and away from Phil's room – away from Barton and everything he'd just been told.

Dan staggered, trying to keep his feet as he vaguely realized it was Todd urging him along. He couldn't bring himself to resist, could barely keep his feet moving at the right pace. All he could think about was Barton.

Barton on the floor of a jet in Budapest.

He closed his eyes against the sudden image, against the sudden remembered sounds. The EKG flatlining, Phil's frantic whispers to a kid that couldn't hear him.

Dan shook his head against the memories. Forced them out of his mind.

But on their heels came others.

Phil's phone call from Uzbekistan.

" _He's not breathing…and he doesn't have a pulse."_

 _God_.

Dan's stomach seized suddenly and he staggered to a stop. Barton was  _alive_. Had told him the truth behind that terrible day  _himself._ Had sat there and put himself through the memories all over again so that the people who cared about him – who had protected him – would know what they'd saved him from.

And what had Dan done? Shot his mouth off without thinking and hit the kid where it would hurt without even realizing it.

 _Fuck_. Barton's  _face_  – the look on his face when Dan had broken from his stupor and realized what he'd said. His stomach twisted again and he groaned, reaching for the wall.

"Goddammit."

Todd's low, soothing voice spoke from his side.

"Keep it together man, we're almost there."

And then they were moving again. Without the warning to his feet, Dan nearly toppled, but the firm hand on his arm kept him upright. He wanted to ask where 'there' was, but realized he didn't actually care as long as it was  _away_.

Again his stomach lurched and he twisted his arm in Todd's grip, finding purchase on the man's sleeve as he pulled up and – fighting for some level,  _any_ level, of control – spoke.

"Find a place." He knew the command came out harsh, but he hoped it just added to the urgency of the moment. " _Now._ "

Todd nodded sharply and practically yanked him across the hallway and through the next door they came to. The room was – thankfully – empty. Well, it was empty save for shelves full of bandages and various medical supplies.

Dan put his hands on a shelf at eye level and grabbed on hard. He tried to force his emotions back under control, tried to reach for and attain a level of calm. But even as he closed his eyes, faces, names, images from the last 48 hours started assaulting him.

Jamie and her wondering if she'd ever get to practice pediatric nursing with SHIELD.

Martin, laughing at the idea, rolling his eyes – and then offering to practice with her and maybe provide the first child.

Marianna, who'd been at his side as a surgical nurse since he'd been assigned to the New York base – half her face blown off by the grenade.

Sarah, who they'd gotten back to the Helicarrier, only to have a bullet shift in surgery and shred what was left of her brachial artery and leave it to bleed out.

Dan's hands tightened on the shelf.

He couldn't save her. But he'd saved Phil. He'd saved Barton in Budapest, had a hand in saving him in Uzbekistan. He'd saved Romanoff when a bullet and a knife wound had tried to kill her with infection. He'd  _saved_  them – the three people that weren't supposed to survive this at all.

With a surge of rage, Dan let go of the metal shelf, made a fist – and started punching the wall.

A hand latched onto his wrist before he could land more than his second hit, and he was pulled bodily away from his impromptu punching bag. He was left to stand in the center of the small room – out of swinging distance of anything solid. Anything except for Todd himself.

"Dan, come on just…" but Todd trailed off, hand falling away from his wrist. "Beating up on the wall and your hand's not gonna change anything."

Dan heaved a rough breath, gaping at the trainer.

"All this…" he drew in a shaky breath, "all this  _shit_  that's happened." Dan half turned, making a fist again and then letting it loosen. "Everything Barton's been through…the Andes, Budapest, fucking Uzbekistan and now  _this_." He gestured at the door, at where Phil lay beyond it. "All because of a contract he took when he was…when he didn't even…" Rage bubbled in him again. "I've never  _seen_  regret like what he carries and Williams just…he still…"

Dan lost his grip on words, his ability to try and explain.

Barton had killed Williams' daughter.

He'd been a contract  _killer_  and he'd done what contract killers do. He'd done it just to survive and it ate at Barton every damned day. It chewed at what was left of his soul and had settled like a permanent weight on his shoulders. And now to find out someone –  _Williams_  – had tried to make him pay for what the kid already tortured himself for  _every damned day._

It was too much.

The fight left him abruptly and he sank down to the floor, hitting his knees on the metal with a thud. A keening note escaped his throat as he shifted to the side and landed hard on his butt. Drawing his knees up, he buried his head in his hands.

And he just cried.

He cried for everybody that had died two days ago. He cried for everybody that had lost someone or that had been hurt.

And he cried for Barton.  _Their_  Barton – his, Todd's and Phil's. He was  _theirs_  and Williams had hurt him. Had hurt him in so many ways and too many times. They thought they'd been protecting him when the whole time they'd been failing.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing slightly and then just remaining.

Todd was there, showing solidarity and offering whatever comfort he could. The man was in the same boat as he was, cared about Barton just as much. Dan wished he had the control, the hard edge, that Todd had – that Barton was famous for. But he just  _didn't_  – didn't have it in him to keep his emotions under wraps. Not right now – not after so much had happened.

He wasn't a fucking field agent. He was a  _doctor_. He wasn't supposed to have to deal with this shit. But here he was – being forced to deal. Because he happened to care a hell of a lot about a certain field agent that had a tendency to attract some pretty awful shit.

Finally, after a few minutes, the tears tapered off. Finally letting himself break down was one thing, but Dan could feel the overwhelming emotions start to ease up a little bit. But in their absence, anger started to rise.

Anger at Williams and the revenge he'd aimed so fiercely at the wrong person. He could guess now what Barton's 'unfinished business' had been. He must have had a lead on whoever had sent him after Brianna Williams in the first place. And if he knew Barton, that man was no longer a threat to anyone.

Anger at the Council for not bothering to see Barton as anything more than an assassin. For not seeing past Williams' reasoning about him and ultimately putting the young man at risk over and  _over_.

And anger at  _himself_  for opening his goddamned mouth to Barton and probably making the whole situation shittier for the kid than it already was. Because if there was one thing he knew about the archer, it was that he tended to take things – especially words spoken by people he cared about – to heart.

Dan blew out a long breath and looked at Todd, somehow managing to grin – though whether it looked more like a grimace, he wasn't sure.

"How're you coping?"

Because just because the man didn't outwardly show his emotions, didn't mean he didn't have them.

Todd's eyebrow crept up incredulously – like that was a funny question coming from Dan. At the moment that may be so, but Dan stood by it. Finally Todd's lips twitched into a weary form of his usual smirk.

"Been better," he sighed, "but been worse though too… _especially_  when it comes to that kid. All in all, this day might actually be one of the better ones where he's concerned."

Dan snorted. Bryan wasn't wrong. Any day where Barton was still in one piece could be qualified as a better day. But putting it in that context…

Dan shook his head.

"You realize how sick that is? If we consider  _this_  a 'better day'?"

Todd let loose a weary chuckle and sank down to sit against the wall.

"Hell, I don't call him my pain in the ass for nothing." Then he sighed and sobered. "But he's alive and even relatively unscathed for once. This one cut it close in a lot of ways, but he's gonna be all right. He's got Phil and Romanoff." His lips quirked into a warm smile. "He's got  _us_."

"Damn straight." Dan agreed immediately. That was one thing Barton wouldn't ever have to doubt. He took a hand across his face, drawing in a shaky breath and wiping away the last of the tears.

" _You_  okay?" Todd's voice was quiet and calm.

Dan sighed.

"Honestly? Hell if I know. Gonna be a while before everything shakes out. Until it does…who knows?"

Todd nodded in understanding and glanced at the door.

"You want some time?"

Time alone to start thinking about all the terrible shit of the world again? No, thank you.

Dan shook his head.

"What I want," he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, grabbing a shelf as he came up, "is a fucking  _drink_. Wanna join me?"

Todd's expression morphed into one of blissful relief and he climbed wearily to his feet.

"Hell fucking yes. Lead the way."

Dan nodded, moving towards the door, only to stop and sigh.

"Well, shit."

Todd groaned behind him.

"Now what?"

Dan turned to face him.

"We're on the  _helicarrier_."

Todd blinked, realization dawning in his eyes.

"Well  _shit_."

Dan nodded.

"And the Abelour is in my desk drawer in New York." He blinked. " _Was_  in my desk drawer. If those bastards destroyed that bottle…"

Todd's hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

"I saw your office wall, Dan." He shook his head. "I wouldn't get my hopes up."

Dan let himself feel the weight of this new sorrow for a moment before a thought struck him. He straightened and grinned.

"I have an idea."

Todd stared wearily at him.

"I've had just about enough suspense the last few days to last my lifetime, so just tell me."

"I know the infirmary head. Let's go see what  _he_  keeps in  _his_  office."

Todd pulled the door open with a grin and dramatically waved Dan ahead of him.

"I'll say it again…lead the way."

They headed out into the hallway together, but didn't get more than twenty feet before a familiar voice calling Dan's name pulled them to a stop.

They turned to watch Agent Maria Hill briskly approach them.

"Doctor Wilson…" her gaze cut sharply over to Todd, who sighed dramatically and moved farther down the hall and out of ear shot. Hill's gaze returned to Dan. "Director Fury sent me to tell you he has time now for that meeting you requested."

Dan shot a look at Todd, making sure the man hadn't overheard. He was scowling down at something on his phone and paying them no mind. He returned his gaze to Hill and sighed.

"You're kidding me right? We're just about to go raid someone's secret liquor stash and Fury has time  _now_?"

In hindsight – as Hill's eyebrow arched – telling Fury's second in command that he was planning to go drink probably wasn't the best idea.

"I'd be happy to tell Fury that the liquor comes first, if you prefer."

Dan sighed and rolled his eyes then he rubbed his hand tiredly over his face.

"Todd…" he raised his voice so the man heard him. Immediately, the trainer's gaze raised to his. After a contemplative moment, Bryan held up a hand and sighed.

"Don't tell me…rain check."

Dan nodded, hand still partially covering his face.

"Rain check." He confirmed and then turned his glowering gaze onto Hill. "You're gonna have to show me where the hell we're going. I've seen all of about one section of this flying crate, and I'm sure you can guess which part."

She nodded sharply and headed back the way she'd come from, leaving Dan to follow or be left behind.

He rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath.

"Someone's in a mood." He turned to face Todd, who was watching him curiously now. "Go back and check on Barton, will you?"

Make sure he stayed put more like it – but no reason Todd needed to know that ulterior motive.

"This won't take long. Tell him – and tell Phil – that if any one breaks anything, there'll be hell to pay."

Todd nodded with a slight chuckle – no stranger himself to Barton's antics. He headed back towards Phil's room only to pause and look back at Dan with a curious grin.

"Where are you going anyway?"

Dan forced a grin onto his face and set off in the direction Hill had gone – hoping that by mostly hiding his expression and talking over his shoulder, he'd be able to sell his lie convincingly.

"Gotta sort something out quick. I'll be back."

A half truth – easier to pull off.

Todd nodded slowly, looking vaguely wary, but didn't try to stop him.

"See you in a few then."

Dan nodded and tossed a wave over his shoulder, quickening his pace after Hill.

* * *

Dan chewed his lower lip and raised his hand to knock on the blacked-out glass door.

Hill had led him to the bridge and then pointed at the door as she was called away to one of the consoles. That left Dan to approach the door on his own, knowing full well that this conversation would likely change everything.

But he had to do it – and it had to be now. Because for the moment, Barton was busy worrying over Phil, and wasn't in a position to interfere. And Barton  _would_  most decidedly interfere if he knew – which is why Dan had gone to great lengths to make sure he didn't.

Dan was ready to do this – to take responsibility for his actions and accept whatever consequences that brought. And if he happened to have maneuvered it so that he beat both Barton _and_  Todd to that punch, then he just owed that to his own genius.

Or to his ability to lie at least somewhat convincingly when it really mattered.

A voice bidding him to 'enter' drew his attention abruptly back to the door in front of him.

He blinked and reached to push his way inside. He found Fury leaning over a tablet on his desk, intensely focused on reading something on its screen. He didn't lift his gaze from the tablet, and didn't acknowledge Dan with anything more than a wave of the hand.

"Take a seat."

Dan dropped into the chair opposite Fury's desk, back ram rod straight with defiance. He may be preparing to take a hit here, but he wouldn't apologize for what he'd done, and wouldn't regret it either.

"Director." He winced a little to himself at the sharpness in his tone.

That wouldn't go over well.

Fury stared down at the tablet for a moment longer.

"You'd better get that attitude out of your posture, Doctor," he lifted his head then, slowly, and with a blank expression, "or this conversation is already over."

Dan forced his spine to relax.

"I'm not on a witch hunt, Wilson. If you're here to defend Barton, there's no nee-"

Dan cut his hand through the air to stop him. Fury's eyebrow arched and he waved a hand sarcastically – signaling Dan to speak.

"I'm not here to defend Barton…I'm here to tell you there doesn't need to be a witch hunt at all…not when someone is willing to confess."

Fury sat back in his chair and regarded him seriously.

"Maybe that person should think long and hard about this. Should realize that there's more to the situation than what  _he_  did and maybe decide that falling on a sword isn't the best option."

Dan sighed. So Fury knew the whole story – of  _course_  he did. The rumor mill had been going non-stop since this whole mess started.

"What do you want to hear?" He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You know as well as I do that I  _wrote_  the triage protocol that got ignored. Hell, I even hand-picked the nurses that were running it. I'm the one that needs to answer for what happened. It was  _my_  call."

Fury blinked his one eye with more sarcastic doubt than Dan had ever seen from anyone but Barton.

"And there were no extenuating circumstances? Nothing – and  _no one_  – that forced your hand?"

He was giving him a chance to finger Barton for this – but that wasn't happening.

He looked Fury straight in the eye, no wavering, no backing down.

"Barton was getting Phil on that jet, Director. I kept a few more names off the casualty list and I'd do it again."

Fury sighed.

"I could take that as an admission to Barton's part in this if I wanted to."

Dan allowed himself a smug smirk.

"But you won't. Because you don't want him burned for this any more than I do."

Fury rolled his eye and looked down but didn't contradict him. Then he tilted his head slightly and raised his gaze – a suddenly knowing glint in his eye.

"He doesn't know you're here – does he?" Then Fury sat forward, answering the question himself before Dan had a chance. "Of course he doesn't. Barton's never been afraid of taking his own hits. He'd never have let you come here…" Fury eyed him heavily. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

This time Dan did roll his eyes.

"Director, if I didn't want to do this, I wouldn't be here. You know damned well what Phil means to that kid. There was absolutely no stopping him – and maybe no one should have  _tried_."

Fury titled his head and his expression suddenly screamed 'don't I  _know_  it.'

"Barton can't lose Phil. Not then and not now." Dan took a breath. "I did what I did and I did it  _knowingly_. That's all there is to it. But it was the  _right_  thing." He gave Fury a hard look. "I won't apologize for it so if you're going to punish me, so be it."

Fury sighed and nodded.

"For what it's worth – you're a good man, Wilson. And maybe what you did – what you allowed –  _was_  the right call, but I can't explain that to people who had friends left behind. Someone has to answer for what happened."

Dan nodded. That's why he was here.

"And that responsibility falls on  _my_  shoulders." He heaved a sigh and went on, "I won't sit here and tell you I would've done anything differently, sir. By getting Phil back here – and saving his life, no less – we kept Barton in the game. Tell me he could have done what he needed to do – gone after Williams – if Phil had died out there?"

Fury's expression darkened at the mention of the treacherous council member. Or maybe it was at how close they'd come to losing Barton  _and_  Romanoff because of this disaster.

"Oh he'd have killed Williams – that's for  _damned_  sure. Probably with Romanoff's help." The Director sighed as if he were suddenly exhausted. "And it would have been without orders and they'd have both disappeared as soon as the body fell. There'd be a kill order on them and I'd be down my _three_  best agents." He gestured almost helplessly at the closed office door. "Instead – they're all here –  _alive_." Fury shook his head in frustration. "And I have to punish someone for that. Because unfortunately, the outcome doesn't justify the means and as I've told Barton on more than one occasion…sometimes there's more than  _one_  right call."

Dan nodded.

"Or maybe sometimes the right call is the wrong call, too." He raised his eyes to look at Fury. He shrugged one shoulder. "Director, I can make this easy on you, if you'd like."

Fury shook his head sharply.

"Nothing about this is easy, Wilson."

Dan stared at him for a long moment, not blinking.

"Easier, then. You do what you've got to, I've made my peace."

Fury nodded slowly.

"Before you go making peace with anything…we've got a few options to consider and I expect you to consider all of them before deciding what you're going to do here."

Dan nodded.

"Understood, sir."

Fury sat forward.

"Okay then."

* * *

End of Chapter 13

A lot of Dan in this chapter - and with a purpose too :) I'm sure most of you have put together what's coming now and it'll all play out tomorrow :)

You know how I feel about reviews - we're old friend...friends like Natasha and guns, like Clint and his bow...life without them just isn't quite complete!

And your final preview!

* * *

_" **What** did you do?"_

_"Clint…" Phil tried to intercede, but Dan waved him off._

_"I did what I had to do, Barton. It was my responsibility."_

_"No – it was **mine**." Barton growled as he rounded the foot of the bed. "What did Fury do? What did he take from you?"_


	14. Some Nights I Always Win, I Always Win

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to those who commented on Chapter 13: RoS13, indynerdgirl, and fireun ! Thanks!
> 
> This one is long, as promised, but it is the last :( bittersweet for me and for you I'm sure…
> 
> THe song for this story was "Some Nights" by FUN. Give it a listen…it's the kind of song I could imagine a fight scene having in the background.
> 
> I'll shut up now and let you get on with reading :) You'll find the preview for the next story at the bottom of this chapter!
> 
> Onto the final chapter of "New York"…

  
_A man who won't die for something is not fit to live._   
_**Martin Luther King, Jr.** _   


* * *

_April 25, 2010_

* * *

Phil jabbed at the buttons on the TV remote and glared at the large screen settled almost precariously on a table across the room.

He would _get_ the game on that screen if it was the last thing he ever did.

Clint's birthday was _not_ getting ruined because the technology was getting temperamental.

He was seconds away from throwing the remote at the TV when his door suddenly burst open.

"You got the game on yet?"

Clint was balancing three boxes of pizza in one hand and hauling an 8-pack of blue Gatorade in the other. He took in Phil's unreasonably annoyed expression with an arched eyebrow and moved closer.

"It's not _working_." Phil jabbed his finger against the buttons harder.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa…" Clint slid the pizza boxes onto Phil's bedside tray and snatched the remote out of his hand like he was child holding something he shouldn't. "No wonder it's not working…you're making it angry with the harsh treatment."

Clint very calmly pressed a series of buttons and the room was suddenly filled with the voices of the pre-game announcers. Clint turned and with a decidedly smug grin offered the remote back to him.

Phil glared half heartedly and took it, tossing it on the bed table with a scowl.

"How did you do that?"

Clint smirked.

"I live in the modern world – you should visit sometime."

Phil rolled his eyes and shifted higher against his pillows.

Clint moved to the TV and adjusted its angle towards Phil's bed, then he glanced over his shoulder and wasn't able to turn his head back fast enough to hide his smirk before Phil saw it.

"You know, Phil…"

And Phil _knew_ this was gonna be good.

"I've managed to go nearly seven years without spending a birthday in the infirmary…and you just _had_ to go ruin that record."

That _tone_. Sarcastic and mildly scolding, but not _quite_ devoid of humor.

It would have had Phil laughing if rolling his eyes hadn't been more appealing.

"Forgive me for getting _shot_ three times."

It wasn't like he'd planned this after all.

Clint didn't try to hide his smirk this time, turned so Phil could see its full glory.

"Now you're just _bragging_."

Phil refused to roll his eyes for a third time – especially not when that was what Clint _wanted_ him to do. Clint was the only one that could interpret a reference to multiple personal injuries as _bragging_. The kid wore his own scars – most of them anyway – proudly, as a testament to his strength. So naturally, he assumed the same was true for everyone.

Clint crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes brightening in determination.

Apparently Phil's refusal to give reaction had been interpreted as a challenge – a challenge that had just been accepted.

"And it's been _nine_ days. I would have been out of the infirmary _ages_ ago."

No doubt he _would_ , much to Phil and Dan's never-ending annoyance.

"That's because you thrive on breaking the rules."

Had no doubt made it a personal mission.

Clint scowled in mocking offense and waved a scolding finger at him.

"I _bend_ the rules. There's a difference."

Phil shot Clint a doubtful look.

"You _break_ them."

And they both knew it. Clint's sudden shrug and noncommittal grunt proved that.

The archer moved to sit in the infirmary chair he'd made his own over the past week, still playing at looking mildly offended.

"Well, in my defense, if something won't _bend_ …"

Phil couldn't hold it back, his eyes rolled without his consent.

Clint chuckled – all pretenses at offense mysteriously gone – and peeked into one of the pizza boxes. Phil put his hand on the top of it and forced it closed again.

"You won't starve if you wait a few minutes for Natasha to get here."

Clint sighed dramatically and sat back in the chair as if that simple request was _nearly_ too much to bear. Phil glanced at the door, wondering where the red headed assassin was. Clint – as he tended to – read his mind.

"She was on the phone…threw a shoe at my head when I tried to find out how long she'd be."

Phil nodded. That meant she was ironing out the final details of her present for Clint. Getting a four acre spread of forest converted into an extreme combat range was no small task. She'd been at it for three weeks. Todd was out there right now, coordinating with her to get the final touches in place.

The fact that she planned on sneak attacking him with a paintball gun was just… _brilliance_.

"I guess that gives me time to give you my present then."

Clint's eyebrow arched curiously.

"You've been laid up in here for nine days…what could you _possibly_ have gotten me?"

Phil smiled and reached for something hidden under the edge of his blanket.

"But _first_."

Clint's expression grew even more curious as he accepted the envelope Phil held out to him. His name was written very simply on the front of the envelope.

"You forget whose birthday it was? Needed to remind yourself? Or were you afraid I'd forgotten my own name?"

Phil wished he still had the envelope so he could throw it at Clint's head.

"Just open the damn envelope, smartass. It's not _from_ me."

Clint held up a hand placatingly and then pulled the envelope open. Phil watched him pull out a card, brow furrowing in confusion as he read the front of the card – a generic, colorful picture wishing him a happy birthday.

Then he flipped the card open.

Phil wished he had a camera for the sudden, bright _innocent_ smile that lit Clint's face.

He tossed the card on Phil's blanketed legs to be forgotten for now, but kept a hold of something that had been hidden inside.

A small stack of Polaroid pictures.

"Jesus _Christ_ …" Clint shook his head and rubbed his fingers over his mouth and then huffed out a laugh and flipped through the pictures. "Do you know what this is?"

Phil shook his head. He knew who it was _from_ – had been surprised to get a call on his private cell phone asking how to get a birthday card to Clint. Had been even more surprised when it was Kara Allias on the other end of the line.

It had been almost a year since he'd finally met Brit and Kara – and it had only taken seconds to realize just how much the acrobatic duo meant to Clint. And how much Clint meant to them.

"It's from Brit and Kara."

Phil pretended he didn't know that already and smiled.

"What is it?"

"Jesus, Phil, you're not gonna believe this."

He flipped the stack around and held it out to Phil.

Clint was right – he couldn't believe it.

It was Clint.

A Clint that couldn't have been more than ten years old, all shaggy blonde hair and sharp blue-gray eyes. He was sprawled out on a net of some sort next to an astonishingly young version of Brit. The acrobat had a book in his hands and his mouth was open as he no doubt read the story aloud to his companion. Clint, for his part, was listening with rapt attention.

The next picture wasn't too far removed from the first. Clint looked no older, or younger. He was practically snuggled up between Brit and Kara as the latter read from another book. The most endearing part of that picture, though, was that Clint was fast asleep.

The third picture was Clint in his natural habitat. Looking down range at a target with a bow drawn in his hands. He looked to be in his early teens, shaggy blonde hair swept to the side on his forehead. Even as a child – wearing a faded Batman t-shirt and holey jeans – he looked at home with a bow in his hands. Like the weapon had been crafted just for him and like he had no other place in the world he'd rather be.

The next picture was the most recent – Clint looked to be at least 14, maybe 15. His hair had been cut short and was sticking up in messy angles from his head. He was standing on top of a gymnast bar – just standing like it was a mile wide. He had his bow in his hand, but it wasn't drawn. There was a cloth hanging in a loose circle around his neck. He was motioning at something with his left hand and his mouth was open as if he were saying something. The look on his face was a mixture of triumph, cockiness, and awe.

The final picture was different. It wasn't a candid shot of Clint behind the scenes at Carson's. It was of Clint as Hawkeye. He was standing on a stage, arms spread out from his sides in a cocky, showy fashion. His bow was held tightly in his right hand, held high in pride. He wore a black half mask – a deep purple curved triangle surrounding each eye and curving up – drawing attention to his 'hawkeyes' no doubt. The rest of the costume – mostly black with shocks of that same purple – was fairly simple. Sleeveless, so his shoulders weren't restricted, and fitted enough to show off Clint's impressively toned physique.

It was Hawkeye before he was the Hawkeye the evil souls of the world grew to fear, before his brother had betrayed him and nudged him towards a dark path. He was just a teenager, happy, cocky… _innocent_ – not to the dark ways of the world, Phillip Jacobs had taken that from him – but innocent about the part _he_ would play in those dark ways.

It made Phil's heart _ache_.

He looked up in surprise when Clint chuckled and pulled the fourth picture from Phil's hand.

"You should have _seen_ the shot I'd just made."

Phil forced himself to smile – to push aside the longing he had to have known Clint back then.

"Must have been good – even _you_ look impressed."

Clint's eyes lit with a spark of cocky arrogance.

"They gave me _one_ look at the target, blind-folded me, spun me in a circle ten times and then guided me to the bar. I climbed up, lined up the shot and…" Clint imitated the motion of pulling back his bowstring with his hands – made a slight whistling sound as he released the imaginary arrow, " _bullseye._ "

"First shot?"

Clint gave him a 'what the hell do you think' look and reached for the other pictures, shifting through them once again. Phil watched him shake his head – a rare look of nostalgia taking up residence in his expression.

"What about the other pictures?"

Clint smiled and held up the first one.

"We were on the trapeze net – he was reading me _'Treasure Island.'_ Kara was a little picture-taking fiend back then."

Clint huffed a laugh and held up the next picture.

"This one – this one I have no idea…as you can see, I was down for the count. I don't even remember why I was so tired…must have been Ana that took that one."

He looked at the next one for a moment before showing it to Phil again.

"I'd had a fight with Barney – didn't want to talk to Brit or Kara…just wanted to…" he shrugged, "exist, I guess."

Phil already knew archery was how Clint did that – how he shut out the rest of the world and just didn't _think_.

"Brit followed me – he usually did. Never let me get away with brooding after I nearly broke my neck on the gymnast bar in the middle of the night once. It was the flash of the camera that let me know he was there."

Phil nodded. He wouldn't ask any more about that one – not on Clint's birthday – not when he just wanted the kid to be smiling again.

"And the last one?"

And there it was – that cocky little smirk.

"That's Hawkeye." Clint stated as if that should have been obvious. "It was Swordsman that figured out I could be a _hell_ of a showman when I was hiding behind a mask. He was right – the crowd _loved_ me."

Phil could only imagine. And somehow it wasn't a surprise that Clint had preferred anonymity – even back then.

"How did you get this? The card, the pictures?"

"I gave Brit my number at the park that day. Kara called me three weeks ago – wanted to make sure there was a way to get that to you. I accommodated her."

Clint shook his head and smiled – then he granted Phil with a rare look of complete sincerity.

"Thank you."

Phil inclined his head and smiled back.

"Ready for your present now?"

Clint slid the pictures back into the card and sat back in his chair.

"Lay it on me."

Phil eased forward and reached under his pillow.

"How much do you have stashed in there?" Clint teased.

Phil shot him a quelling look and pulled out another envelope. It was simple, white and blank.

Clint arched an eyebrow and accepted it.

Phil couldn't help but hold his breath as he watched Clint pull the flap back and shake the single item out into his hand.

Several things filtered through Clint's expression in the seconds that followed.

Pain – pain like Phil rarely saw him show. A deep, heart wrenching _longing_. There was sorrow and even a flash of betrayal. But then there was joy.

"Where did you _get_ this?" Clint's fist went to press against his mouth when his voice cracked and for a moment he closed his eyes.

"It took a lot of digging and searching – _years_ worth."

Clint swallowed thickly and opened his eyes, raising them to Phil's. His eyes were a swirling mixture of emotions – and were shining suspiciously bright.

"This is my parents."

Phil nodded solemnly. He knew what the picture held – a family of four. Two parents, two kids.

It was the Bartons. The Bartons at "Chuck E Cheese" as they gathered around a cake with a bright purple candle shaped like a six.

"I remember this."

"Well it _was_ your birthday."

Clint chuckled lightly, but the pain his expression contradicted the sound.

He stared down at the picture and abruptly drew in a shaky breath.

"I never had anything…Jacobs, he didn't let us…" Clint cleared his throat and shook his head – almost as if forbidding himself from going down that road.

"I know," Phil assured quietly. "Which is why I started looking."

Clint dropped his head down, scrubbing his hand up his face and back into his hair.

"Where did you find this, Phil?"

"On the wall of that Chuck E Cheese, buried under a hundred others just like it."

Clint laughed – still yet to pull his eyes from the picture.

"Your stubborn tenacity strikes again."

Phil smiled with a hint of pride.

"Thank you, Phil…you have no idea…" Clint stopped and smiled suddenly. "Actually, you probably know _exactly_ what this means to me."

Phil didn't deny it. If there was one thing in the world that he _knew_ , it was Clint. Which is what made him ask his next question.

"Even though it has Barney in it?"

Clint's expression froze for a fraction of a breath, before loosening again. His eyes dropped back down to the picture and he sighed.

"He was a good brother once, Phil. Loved me, looked out for me…this is from when that was all true. I'm glad he's in it."

Phil blew out a relieved breath just as the door swung open and their wayward red-headed assassin strode in.

* * *

Natasha pushed her way into Phil's room with a grin. Everything was ready. The course was _amazing_ – Bryan's best work as far as Natasha was concerned. She couldn't wait to turn Clint loose on it.

 _Really_ couldn't wait to sneak up on him and shoot him with a paintball gun.

Had a quiver full of collapsible tipped, paint-filled arrows hidden on the course just for him because she _knew_ he'd turn it into game of cat and mouse.

Who was the cat and who was the mouse? Well, that remained to be seen.

"Have I missed anything?" She asked as she came to stand behind Clint and looked to the TV, pleased to see the game didn't seem to have started. When neither of them replied, she turned her attention back to Clint and realized he was holding something up for her to see.

A picture.

 _Oh my god_.

That was Clint – a little bitty, apparently _six_ -year-old Clint. It had been _nineteen_ years since that day, but those eyes couldn't lie. She knew every flake of color and nuance of those eyes.

Those were Clint's eyes.

"Wow." She breathed as she leaned over his shoulder and took in the rest of the picture. Two adults, a man and a woman. A woman with blonde hair and blue eyes – the bluest she'd ever seen. A man with dark brown hair, equally brown eyes and a strong set to his shoulders. Then there was another boy, maybe 12, looked to be the spitting image of his father.

 _Barney_.

Natasha looked from the picture, to Clint's profile, then to Phil.

The handler nodded slightly. The picture was _exactly_ what she thought it was.

She was looking at Clint's family – the family he'd lost when he was still just a child. The family she knew he longed for in the dark hours of the night when his usual defenses didn't keep back the memories.

She lightly rested her hands on his shoulders, squeezing slightly to offer comfort. She took in the serious weight in his expression and looked back at the picture, searching for a way to make him smile.

Then she saw it.

"What had you done?"

Clint started next to her – raising wide, confused eyes to hers.

"Huh?"

"That look in your eyes," she brushed her finger across the round-faced, blonde-headed, smiling little boy and smiled, "I've seen that look. You did something _mischievous_. What?"

Clint's eyes brightened and his mouth curled into a smirk.

"I hadn't done anything yet…but in about ten seconds, I smashed icing in my dad and Barney's faces."

Natasha laughed and kissed Clint's cheek.

"Told you," she ruffled Clint's hair and shot Phil a glance, nodding slightly at the appreciative, approving look he gave her, "I know that look."

* * *

Todd was smiling as he strode down the halls of the helicarrier.

He _wished_ he was going to be there to see Barton's reaction to that course. He'd have to settle for Romanoff's account of it later. Unfortunately _he_ couldn't just take off and go do whatever he wanted – it wasn't _his_ birthday after all.

Todd sped up when he saw a familiar tall figure ahead of him.

"Wilson! Wait up!"

Dan turned immediately to wait for him to catch up. As Todd drew up next to him, he realized something was off in Dan's expression – something wasn't quite right. Todd frowned thoughtfully, but put it aside for the moment and focused on his main purpose.

"You been to see Barton yet?"

Dan shook his head negatively – something Todd couldn't identify passing through his gaze before he averted it and cleared his throat.

"I'm headed there now actually."

Todd watched him for a moment before nodding slowly.

"Yeah, me too."

Dan motioned down the hallway and started walking again, leaving Todd no choice but to fall into step with him or get left behind. As they walked he shot a furtive look in Dan's direction. The doctor was tense and, if Todd was reading him right, upset about something.

Not at all how Todd expected him to look when they were headed to wish their favorite pain in the ass a happy birthday.

He shot the doctor another suspicious glance.

Maybe he knew something Todd didn't.

He _had_ been coming from the direction of the main bridge. Maybe he'd heard something about the situation surrounding Barton – something that bothered him enough to put him on edge.

There had been rumors going around the helicarrier for days now. Rumors that ranged from Barton shooting five SHIELD agents so he could get Phil on a jet to Barton breaking down in tears over Phil's downed body.

One thing was consistent.

Barton.

Todd suddenly realized his own shoulders were tensing up and he had allowed his face to morph into a scowl. Well if that didn't tell him what had Dan in a knot, then nothing would. He grabbed Dan's arm and pulled him to a stop.

"You know something about Barton? Did the Council catch wind of it? Has Fury decided what to do?"

Dan just stared at him, slightly blank with shock at the suddenness of the interrogation.

"What are you talking about?"

He was trying for ignorance, complete with wide eyes and a blank expression. But Dan wasn't a field agent for a reason – lying to people's faces just wasn't his best skill. Todd could see through the bluff like it was crystal clear.

"What do you know? Are they coming after him? If they are, we need to get out ahead of it."

He had to go to Fury – take responsibility for his part in what had happened. _He'd_ been the one to discharge a weapon after all. All Barton had done was glare. But knowing what he knew now about the Council, he wouldn't put it past them to try and take Barton down over what had happened.

"They'll burn Barton for this, you know they will."

Dan shook Todd's hand off his arm and looked suddenly resolved.

"No they won't."

He said it with such absolute certainty, like it was already a done deal. The tone had Todd momentarily shocked silent. The only way he could have that kind of certainty was if…

"What did you do?"

Dan's eyes shifted away before coming back hard with determination.

"Barton's in the clear, that's all that matters."

Dan tried to step away, but Todd caught his arm again.

"What did you _do_?"

Dan shook off his hand again, this time with a huff of annoyance.

"I took responsibility for my actions." He arched his eyebrow at Todd in challenge. "And from the way you were just talking, that's exactly what _you_ were gonna do."

Todd didn't waste breath trying to deny that. He'd have done it nine days ago if Fury had let him. But Fury hadn't because they'd had bigger concerns at the time. Todd hadn't had a chance to even think about going to Fury again.

Dan apparently, had _made_ the time.

"What'd Fury do?"

"It doesn't matter." Dan insisted, but his eyes shuttered and he looked away. And now Todd knew it _did_ – it mattered _a lot_. "Come on," Dan cleared his throat and nodded in the direction of Phil's room, "Barton's waiting."

Todd rolled his eyes and fell in step with Dan as he started walking again.

"He doesn't even know we're coming. And if he did, it's not like he'd sit on his hands waiting for us."

* * *

"I've been _waiting_ for you! Where have you been?!" Clint demanded as Wilson and Bryan walked into the room.

They both blinked at him in confused surprise. Clint gestured angrily at the TV.

"The Yankees are _losing_!" He pointed an accusing finger at them both. "It's because you weren't here when the game started. Why would you do that to me? Why would you want the Yankees to lose on my _birthday_?"

Both men opened their mouths to respond, only to stop and look at each other in vague confusion.

"Baseball is a game of superstition." Phil supplied from his bed.

"Exactly." Clint gave him an approving point. "You were both there when the Yankees kicked the Angels' asses last time…so everything needs to stay the same. Same people, same drinks, same pizza."

Bryan recovered first.

"But we're not in the same room…not even on the same base."

Clint scoffed.

"It doesn't count if I can't _help_ it."

And Bryan called himself a baseball fan.

The trainer's expression grew overwhelmingly sarcastic.

"What was I thinking?" He stated in a deadpan. Then he leaned towards Phil. "Since when do we humor _crazy_?"

"Since it's his birthday," Phil supplied.

Todd rolled his eyes.

Clint allowed himself to feel mildly triumphant. He loved playing that card. And he only got it one day a year, so he intended to use it well.

"But Romanoff wasn't here last time." Dan spoke up suddenly.

Clint glared at him – but it was Natasha who spoke in her own defense.

"You suggesting I'd be _bad_ luck?"

Clint had learned to beware of that tone a _long_ time ago. He shot Wilson a warning glance.

The doctor blinked, eyes suddenly wide.

"Nope. No. Not at all. Who, me?" He cleared his throat. "Say, where'd you get pizza anyway? Last I checked we were still floating somewhere over the Atlantic."

Clint smirked as mischievously as he could.

"I have my sources."

He let them all stew on _that_ while he turned his attention back to the game. The people that mattered were here, he had his pizza – and it was his birthday. No way the Yankees would lose now.

* * *

The Yankees were still losing.

Dan allowed himself a small smile as Todd and Barton exchanged words in a heated debate over the last call made.

It faded just as quickly.

He still hadn't told them.

And he _had_ to – it had to be him. He'd stopped by Fury's office on his way here – had relayed his ultimate decision about the triage situation. After Fury had laid out the options for him a week ago, he'd been instructed to take _time_ to decide if this was really what he wanted to do.

As hard as it was, Dan stood by his decision.

And sooner or later the news would start making its way around the base and there would be hell - in the form of Barton's wrath - to pay if Dan didn't tell him first.

He'd been ready to spill it all the moment he walked in the door. But Barton had been so _relaxed_ – well aside from his near aneurism because his team was losing. He'd been happy. And it was his _birthday_.

Dan had decided in about a second flat that he didn't want to ruin that.

Judging by the increasingly suspicious glances the kid kept shooting him, though, he wasn't going to have a choice in that matter for very much longer. He forced himself to reach for another piece of pizza even though he wasn't hungry.

He was still mechanically chewing when the game went to commercial.

He had managed to distract himself so well that he missed Barton's sudden intense focus on him. He even almost missed the words the kid sent his way.

"So what the hell is going on?"

Dan blinked, swallowed the pizza in his mouth, and painted on the most innocent expression he could.

"What?"

Barton's eyes narrowed. He should have known better than to try and con a conman. If Todd had sniffed out the bluff, of _course_ Barton would have.

"You really gonna try and pull that shit with me? I _invented_ that bluff, Doc."

Dan sighed and tossed his half-eaten pizza back in the box.

He debated for a moment whether or not to be blunt or ease Barton into it.

Hell. Who was he kidding – blunt was practically ingrained in his personality.

"I talked to Fury."

Todd shifted uncomfortably in his chair next to him and it took Barton even less time than he expected to put it all together. The archer's eyes hardened dangerously and he sat forward slowly in his chair.

"You did _what_?"

Dan swallowed, refusing to show a reaction to the sudden fury in Barton's expression. The kid had never scared him before. He wasn't about to start letting him now.

"I talked to Fury – took responsibility for what happened."

Nobody needed clarification on what he was talking about. Romanoff's eyes widened and then flew to Clint when he suddenly stood from his chair, leaning over Phil's bed and pointing an angry finger at Dan's chest.

" _What_ did you do?"

"Clint…" Phil tried to intercede, but Dan waved him off.

"I did what I had to do, Barton. It was my responsibility."

"No – it was _mine_." Barton growled as he rounded the foot of the bed. "What did Fury do? What did he take from you?"

Dan swallowed thickly. This was going to be the hardest part. He braced himself and tried to force the words out. But for a long moment all he could do was stare at Barton.

The archer came up into his space and latched onto his shirt, pulling him to his feet so he could glare at him properly. Dan didn't bother trying to fight it.

"What did he take?" He asked again – his tone low and hiding barely concealed fear.

Goddamned perceptiveness – he could tell the kid knew something _major_ had shifted, he just wasn't sure what.

Dan held Barton's hard gaze and answered.

"You."

Barton's hands left his shirt like he'd been burned.

"What?" he breathed in shock – but Dan could see in his eyes that Barton had connected the dots – had drawn the right conclusion. " _No._ "

Any other day a heartfelt objection like that – coming from Barton – would have warmed him to his soul. But today it could be the reason the kid never forgave him.

"As of an hour ago, I was removed as your primary physician," he took a breath, " _and_ as the infirmary director."

Barton stepped back like he'd been struck.

Romanoff's mouth dropped open in shock. Todd sucked in a surprised breath and Phil blew out a _less_ surprised breath – like he'd known this might happen. The sound had Barton's eyes snapping to his handler's like he was suddenly prey to a deadly tiger.

"You _knew_ about this?"

Trust Barton to have the nuances of Phil's sighs down to a science.

Phil bit his lip and sighed again.

"I was afraid Fury might go this direction."

Barton stepped closer to Phil's bed.

" _That's_ not what I meant."

Dan sighed. Barton had sniffed out that Phil knew Dan was planning to talk to Fury. Something Dan had threatened him into secrecy about. He couldn't let Phil take heat for that, especially not from Barton.

"This wasn't his choice, Barton. It was mine. And it's final."

As he hoped – and partially feared – Barton's attention swung back to him.

"A woman named Anna Webber will be taking over both the infirmary _and_ your care."

Barton's expression turned mutinous.

"Like hell."

He moved to stalk past Dan and to the door. Only a quick hand to Barton's bicep stopped him. He withdrew the hand just as quickly when a gaze full of fire landed on him and the archer's hands fisted at his sides.

"Listen, Barton – I broke triage protocol when I let you bring Phil on board. Stuff like that has consequences." Dan sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Fury had to do something. So I'm officially being transferred to the helicarrier to take over as head of trauma surgery. Unofficially," he blew out a shaky breath, "I need to prove that I can be a doctor first and…" he felt his next words catch in his throat, "and a friend second."

It felt wrong saying it and he could tell it felt wrong hearing it. Barton shook his head sharply.

"No – _no_ …Fury can't do this."

Dan grabbed at Barton's wrist before he could do more than shift back towards the door.

"Dammitall, Barton. He already _has_! Now just slow the hell down and _listen_."

Barton ripped his wrist out of Dan's grip, grabbed a fistful of Dan's shirt and forcefully backed him up a step.

"I'm _not_ letting you do this."

"You don't have a goddamned choice." Dan straightened to his full height, towering over Clint – to which the kid didn't look cowed in the least. If anything, the fist in his shirt tightened. "This can't happen again. I can't make a choice like that again – because I'll choose _you_ ," he glanced purposefully around the room, "any of you – every time. And I can't be in that position – Fury can't _let_ me be in that position."

Barton stayed toe-to-toe with him for a long moment. Then he pushed himself away from Dan, from all of them, backing a step towards the door.

"Then what the hell is the point? What's the point of having a team – of trusting _anybody_ – if they can't be the ones to back you up? _You're_ my doctor, Wilson."

Wilson couldn't help but be warmed by the heat and conviction in Barton's tone.

"I don't want some other idiot trying to pretend they know what's best for me." If possible, Barton's gaze grew even more serious. "I don't want _my_ life – or _theirs_ ," he nodded towards Phil and Natasha, "in anybody's hands but yours."

"Clint," Phil called for his attention softly and Barton's eyes went to his immediately.

Wilson found himself envying the devotion the kid felt to the man.

"Do you really think that Dan would trust anyone but _himself_ if it ever came to that? This is about politics – about making an example."

Dan nodded firmly.

"Barton, someone had to pay for that stunt. They nearly had a riot on their hands after we left. We triaged off 58 different agents and _one_ ," he looked pointedly at Phil, "lived. That I can be here, having this conversation with you while he's sitting _right_ there. It's worth the price."

Barton's gaze went back to Phil, then to the ground then finally back to Dan's.

"And _you're_ the one that's paying it? You decided that? But it's not just _you_." Fire rose in Barton's gaze again. "I know something about paying a price," none of them could help but glance at Romanoff, who shifted in her seat, "and it's never just about one person. We _all,_ " he motioned at Phil and Romanoff and even Todd – who looked like he wasn't all that sure he should be here for this, "pay that price too – because we lose _you_."

"You're not losing anyone, Barton." Dan grabbed Barton's shoulder, forcing him to meet his eyes. The kid was making this so much harder. "I promise you that. The road's just gonna be a little more winding than it used to be."

Barton knocked the hand off his shoulder with more force than Dan thought was necessary.

"That's _bullshit_. And I'm not letting it happen."

Then he was spinning on his heel, practically ripping the door off its hinges as threw it open and stormed out.

Phil looked to Romanoff, who rose out of her seat, but Dan waved her away.

"I got this."

He tried not to be offended by the triplet of doubtful looks he got as he set off after Barton.

* * *

It took every ounce of self restraint Clint had not to slam his fist into Wilson's face when the man wrapped a hand around Clint's bicep and manhandled him into an empty room. He settled instead for jerking his arm free and shoving the doctor hard in the chest – hard enough to send him back two stumbled steps.

"What the _hell_ , Wilson!"

What was the man _thinking_? Intercepting Clint on his current mission – giving him _reason_ to be on this mission in the first place.

Wilson tried to step closer, but Clint set him back again with a firm palm to the sternum.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Calm the hell down, Barton." Wilson's tone was sharp as he sidestepped and reached to throw the lock on the door. He – wisely in Clint's opinion – kept his eyes on Clint the entire time.

That was good – it helped Clint resist the urge to punch him in the face.

"We need to talk." Wilson insisted calmly.

"About what?" Clint let his fury bleed into his tone. "You playing the martyr?"

"Yes!" Wilson shot back, "because someone damned well needed to!" He intently kept Clint's gaze, maybe knew that if he looked away Clint could use it as an opportunity to strike. "My infirmary, my protocols. I broke 'em. End of story."

Clint felt defiance stiffen his shoulders and straighten his spine. The action caused the still-strained muscles to protest, but he used the pain to fuel him.

"Like _hell_ it is." He advanced into Wilson's space – and like every time before, the man didn't back away. "We _both_ know that I was putting Phil on that jet no matter what you said. I was ready to drop _you_ and anyone else that tried to stop me. That was _my_ call – _my_ choice." He pitched his tone low – the kind of tone that he knew put fear in the hearts of the evilest men in the world. He knew it wouldn't scare Wilson – but it _would_ show the man how serious he was.

When Wilson rolled his eyes a moment later, Clint almost lashed out.

"Oh, so Todd beating back the rioting masses had nothing to do with it? My going against every bit of training I've ever gotten on triage? Nothing? Funny. And here I thought the grown-ups around this place actually had minds of their own."

Clint clenched his jaw and beat down the wave of frustration that swept through him.

"I know what you did – I know what _Bryan_ did." He jabbed a finger in Wilson's chest. "But I put you both in that position and that's on _me_." He turned his finger around and jabbed it against his own chest. "I don't need anyone taking the fall for me."

"DAMMITALL, BARTON!"

Clint blinked in surprise at the sudden yell. Even Wilson looked like he'd surprised _himself_.

"Would you just shut the hell up and _think_ for a minute?"

Clint continued to stare in momentary shock before narrowing his eyes in annoyance.

Purposefully annoying – that's what Wilson was being.

"What is there to think about? I'm not letting you take the hit for this. _Especially_ if that means I've gotta put up with some asshole I don't even know every time I get busted up enough to need a doctor."

He shifted to push past Wilson. He was done talking.

But Wilson shifted with him, blocking his way. The doctor winced and his eyes dropped to Clint's hands – which he realized had tightened into fists.

"Listen to me!" The doctor ground out in frustration.

Wilson pressed his back against the lock on the door, putting Clint in a position where he'd _have_ to go through him to get out. That idea was looking more tempting by the moment.

"If Fury was this ready to pull me as your doctor – pull me out of my role of responsibility – what the hell do you think he's gonna do to _you_?"

Clint blinked in vague confusion. If he could guess, Fury would do what he _always_ did when Clint pissed him off. Add a reprimand to his file. Put him on probation. Lower his clearance. Give him a shit assignment.

The usual.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He finally demanded in confusion.

Wilson sighed deeply.

"Think it through a second, Barton." He bit his lip and closed his eyes for a moment before going on. "This was about objectivity – or the _lack_ of it. My punishment is getting removed as your doctor and as head of the infirmary. What would the equivalent have been for _you_?"

Clint paled dramatically as it all clicked together in his head.

_Jesus…_

"Phil."

Wilson didn't look triumphant as he nodded.

"Uh- _huh_. I'm your doctor, kid, but Phil's your handler. Objectivity isn't even on the radar when it comes to the two of you – it never has been and that's _okay_. If you think any of us are gonna even _think_ of fucking with that equation, you got another thing coming." He sighed. "I don't care that you pissed on my rulebook, kid. I would have done the same exact thing – hell, I _did_. But Fury has to hold someone accountable. If that's you, then what the hell were you, Todd, and I fighting so hard for?"

For a long moment, Clint could only stare at him.

He almost told Wilson to go to hell – that he was marching right to Fury and setting the damned record straight. But he couldn't force the words past his throat because the selfish part of him – the part that had gone 'fuck the rules' when Phil had been bleeding in his arms – would never do anything that could jeopardize Phil's place in his life.

He wouldn't lose Phil – not for Wilson, not for anyone.

Something told him Wilson had known that – had counted on it – had played that card _knowing_ Clint would back down. He felt the fight drain out of him and dropped his gaze to his boots, bracing his hands on his hips wearily.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry that he was too selfish to risk losing Phil – to step up and take responsibility for his actions. Before Wilson had a chance to respond – no doubt in an attempt to absolve him – Clint went on, eyes still on his boots.

"I would have done the same thing for you." He raised his eyes again, meeting Wilson's gaze. "You _know_ that, right?"

Wilson chuckled warmly.

"Damned straight I know it." Wilson lifted his chin, gesturing at Clint. "You've got some friends in pretty high places around here, Barton. Ones that are willing to take a hit for you every now and then. Don't knock it."

Clint tilted his head slightly, looking Wilson over seriously. He sniffed and scuffed his boots on the ground.

"You shouldn't call me that." At Wilson's confused look, he clarified. "Barton."

Wilson frowned.

"Not following the rabbit trail you're laying there, kid."

Clint felt a slight grin quirk his lips before he grew serious again. He made sure to meet Wilson's gaze as he responded.

"I don't know much about family…" he had to swallow against the memory of Williams' scathing words – words he still hadn't let himself dwell on. "But I _do_ know that they don't call each other by last names…so…" his lips quirked into a grin again. "Clint – not Barton."

Wilson's eyes went wide in shock, which morphed into something like awe. His jaw went slack and he just stared at Clint in wordless surprise.

Clint smiled warmly and shrugged like it wasn't the big deal they both knew it was.

"I figure it's been seven years. Probably should have made the leap a long time ago." Clint's felt slight shame tweak the smile. He didn't trust easy, that was true, but Wils- DAN – had earned that from him.

It shouldn't have taken something like this for him to realize that.

Wilson shook his head, finally breaking out of his stupor.

"I'm touched, Bar… _Clint_." He corrected himself as he spoke and offered a warm smile. "Really. Now...have I talked you off this particular ledge? Will you let it go?"

Clint frowned, his gaze turning heavy. He hated himself for what he said next.

"It's not right. It's not _fair_ …" he shook his head and looked away – couldn't meet Dan's eyes anymore. "But I _can't_." He swallowed thickly, suddenly overwhelmingly ashamed of his own selfishness. "I won't lose Phil."

Dan smiled in what looked like relief.

"And with the amount of people watching your backs, you won't have to." Dan shifted his head to gain Clint's gaze again. "Just remember you're worth the effort – _every_ time. And so is Phil. That's what friends do."

_You're worth the effort._

Clint felt a swell of emotion. He felt like he'd heard something similar to that from Dan before – but couldn't remember the man ever having spoken the words.

Phil was the only one who had ever made it a point to make sure he understood that…until now. He knew in his head – and his heart – that it was true for Natasha too, but it wasn't something they had ever needed to say to each other.

Until now, Clint hadn't really thought it was true for anyone but Phil and Tasha.

He nodded slowly, letting Dan see in his eyes a hint of the impact those simple words were having on him.

"That's what _family_ does, Dan. Phil and Tash...they're all the family I have and now…now you're part of that." He forced himself to sport a version of his usual smirk. "Whether you like it or not."

Dan shook his head.

"Hate to tell you this, kid…" He stopped suddenly. "Guess I should cut that out too, huh?"

Clint suddenly huffed an amused laugh.

If the day ever came when Dan, Phil, Todd, _and_ Fury stopped calling him 'kid' – he'd quit his job.

"Nobody else can seem to – don't know why I should expect you to either."

Dan snorted softly.

"Anyway," his gaze sobered and his face grew solemn, "you've had family here for a long time, kid. That will _never_ change."

Clint's felt his chest clench like a vice had closed around it and he knew for a second a vulnerability he usually kept buried deep was showing in his eyes. He blinked it away and schooled his features.

"I think I know _now_ more than ever…that it _can_."

It could change in a _second_ – with one bullet. He could lose any of his 'family' any day, any time. That was more real to Clint now than it had ever been.

Dan sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Bar- Clint, I want you to listen to me for a minute."

Clint hesitated a moment and then met Dan's eyes – telling him without words that he had his attention.

"I know what Phil means to you. Hard to miss after all this, but…" He paused, seemed to battle with himself over wording. "But God forbid anything ever happened to him, you have other people that are here for you."

Clint felt like Dan had punched him in the gut and he found himself flashing back to the promise Phil had forced out of him. It took everything he had not to let it show in his expression as he forced himself to keep listening.

"No matter who's here and who's not…you have people that care about you. People who have called you 'family' for a hell of a lot longer than I'm sure you realize."

Clint breathed away the tension remembering his conversation with Phil brought him. He raised his chin slightly and thought of Bryan and another conversation he probably needed to have about family.

"I hear you."

And he did. He had more than Phil now. He knew that. Phil had forced him to understand it. And it was easier – now that Phil was alive and staying that way for now – to accept Dan's words and keep pretending that if it ever came to this again, it would be enough.

Dan nodded.

"Good." He huffed out a breath and blinked against a wetness Clint could see in his eyes. "Go watch your ballgame, okay? Have fun, eat pizza, enjoy your birthday and ignore the hell out of the fact that you're spending it in the infirmary. That's my last order as your doctor."

Clint smiled warmly.

"Only if you follow your own directive and sit your ass down with us."

Dan hesitated for a long moment and then sighed and shrugged.

"What the hell? Someone has to help Todd root against the damned Yankees."

* * *

Phil shifted in his bed, something pulling him from his sleep. He frowned as he sensed a presence in the room with him, but he realized who it was before he ever opened his eyes.

"You okay?" He asked with a yawn as he shifted up in his bed. He glanced first at the clock on the wall – 3:15 am – and then looked across the room to Clint, who was sitting down on the floor against the wall next to the door. The archer's eyes rose to his and he shifted his arms where the rested across the knees that were drawn up to his chest.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"That's not what I asked."

Clint sighed and straightened his legs out ahead of him. He looked away, rubbing a hand tiredly over his eyes, but didn't answer. Phil frowned, taking a moment to analyze what he was seeing – posture, expression, eyes.

And all at once, he knew.

"You're letting him win."

Clint's eyes shot up to his and he blinked in vague surprise.

"You're letting him win." Phil repeated simply.

Clint kept staring at him in shock, somehow, once again surprised by how well Phil knew him. One day he'd realize that Phil would _always_ know him – would always be able to tell when something was wrong.

He was vaguely surprised when Clint's shoulders squared in defense and he frowned.

"No, I'm not."

So no denying this was about Williams then.

"What did he say to you?"

There it was again – that blankness from days before.

"Jesus, Clint – you can't let a dead man hold something over you like this."

Clint reached to scrub his hand through his hair in frustration.

"I _know_ that, Phil, but…" He shook his head and looked away.

But that's exactly what he was letting him do. Phil fought every instinct he had that was screaming at him to climb out of this damn bed and go comfort him – or shake him until he realized whatever Williams had said was _wrong._

Instead, he schooled his features.

"But what?" He kept his tone low and as close to soothing as he dared.

He watched Clint's jaw flex and he drew his knees back up to his chest again – a defensive position that gave away how vulnerable Clint was actually feeling. He looked so young, sitting there in athletic pants, a t-shirt, and bare feet – with sleep-mussed hair and those _eyes._ He looked like someone that needed to be protected – not like a skilled killer that had been protecting _himself_ since he was six years old.

When he finally answered, the _tone_ had Phil wanting to go kill Williams for a second time.

"What if he's right?" Pain. Sorrow. Fear. Self-loathing. Vulnerability. All of it was mixed up in that tone and it hurt to hear.

Phil sat up carefully in his bed and turned to face Clint as best he could.

"Clint, _what_ did he say?"

Because he couldn't fight this battle until he knew what the enemy was. And this battle needed to be fought – _right_ now. He needed to get that tone out of Clint's voice – to get the slump out of his shoulders. He needed to get that _look_ out of his eyes and he needed to do it now.

Clint's sigh drew his focus and he watched him close his eyes tightly and clench his jaw.

"What am I to you, Phil?"

 _That_ came out of left field. Phil shook his head in confusion.

"What?"

"What am I to you?"

Where was that coming from? What the _hell_ had Williams said to him?

Phil sighed and eased his legs over the side of the bed, preparing to test his weight on them. As he'd predicted – and counted on – Clint was suddenly at his side, pushing him back into the bed.

"Lay back _down_ before you hurt yourself."

"Had to get you over here somehow." Phil smirked in triumph. He pulled at Clint's wrist until the kid sat on the edge of the bed.

The archer rolled his eyes and mumbled something under his breath. Phil settled back against his pillows and watched him for a long moment. When it didn't appear that Clint was going to ask his question again, Phil decided to just answer like he had.

"Why would you ask me that?"

Clint shook his head and looked down at his hands, scratching at the splint on his finger. Phil thought for a minute.

Damn Williams. He was still hurting Clint – deader than dead and he was still landing hits.

"Are you gonna let him do this? Make you question what I've told you – _shown_ you – over and over?"

Clint's expression crumbled and he steadfastly refused to raise his eyes.

Phil sighed sadly.

It was always in the night – when his defenses were at their lowest – that Clint's insecurities attacked him with the most ferocity. Whether it was a nightmare or just that the world around him was so quiet that he thought too much, Clint was terrible at defending himself against _himself_ – against his own impossible standard.

He sat forward, wincing slightly as his chest pulled sharply, and wrapped his hand around the back of Clint's neck.

"You are _everything_ to me. You're my _family_ , Clint." He whispered it low and fervent – _needing_ Clint to believe him, to hear the truth in his tone.

The muscles under his hand were taught with tension and Clint still didn't look at him.

"How?"

Phil felt like he'd been slapped.

"How could you say that about someone like me?"

He tightened his hand around the nape of Clint's neck until the pain had the kid looking up at him.

"Don't you _ever_ talk about yourself like you don't deserve what I give to you."

Clint's eyes were an open book at the moment and every insecurity, every self-loathing thought was racing around those eyes for the world to see.

"But I _don't_." Clint believed it – Phil could hear it in every part of his voice. "I'm a killer – that's _all_ I am. It's all I'll ever be."

"You're my friend." Phil countered sharply. "My _brother_ – my _son_." He whispered the last lowly and went on before Clint could acknowledge it one way or another. "You're the most talented agent to _ever_ come through this organization. You're an amazing strategist – the best archer in the _world_. You're funny and sarcastic and _smart_. You're brave and selfless and strong and consistently throw yourself between danger and innocents without hesitation. You're a fighter – like no one I've ever seen. _That's_ who you are."

He tilted his head to hold Clint's gaze when the kid tried to look away.

"And you're a killer."

Because there was no denying that fact – not with a kill count like Clint's.

"But who you are goes _so_ far beyond that _small_ piece of it. You have to see that."

He _had_ to. How could he not when it was so clear to Phil.

"You are _everything_ to me."

He said it again – with every ounce of affection and devotion he had in him.

"Don't let Williams take that truth away from you."

Clint chewed the inside of his lip and then blew out a shaky breath.

"He said I was a tool to you –to everyone here. An abused animal that you're nice to so that I'll do what you want." Clint made a sour face, like part of him couldn't deny the _truth_ in that. "He said it was pathetic to think I'd found a family with liars and killers. Said I didn't have a family – that I never will."

Phil didn't often entertain homicidal thoughts – but right now he wished Williams was still alive so he could kill him himself. He doubted Williams had known the truth about Phillip Jacobs, it wasn't in Clint's file. He'd probably made the comment about an 'abused animal' without truly realizing the truth behind it.

That didn't make it hit any less closer to home, though.

And no family? The man had obviously not been paying close enough attention to Phil the past seven years because you didn't get more like family than how he treated Clint.

"Well, he was contradicting himself for one thing." Phil watched as Clint's eyes came up, questioning. Phil couldn't keep a small smile from growing. "Why else would he have come after us?"

Clint blinked in vague realization.

"Huh."

Phil pressed on.

"And he was _wrong_." He said it with as much conviction as he could muster.

"That's what I told him."

Phil drew back slightly. That was unexpected. And begged the question of why they were having this conversation at all.

"You did?"

Clint nodded slightly – an odd look on his face at the admittance.

"Well, there you go." Phil smiled warmly. "Where's that fight now?"

Clint sighed.

"Lost in the dark." And buried under his ruthless insecurities, no doubt.

There was such truth in that it _hurt_.

"Then how about you stick around and we'll fight together for a little while, huh?"

Clint hesitated for a long moment – unwilling to admit his vulnerability even to Phil, even in such a small way. But then he nodded and shifted off the bed, toeing one of the chairs in the room closer. He sat with a sigh, maybe closer to the bed than was strictly necessary. Phil shifted against his pillows and debated on how to proceed.

Finally he smiled.

"So which do you want to talk about first – how you _hid_ a crease deep enough to see rib or how you put down four agents in the infirmary when they tried to stop you from following me into surgery?"

The sudden sheepish look on Clint's face told him _both_ counts were true – but defense was already rising in his eyes and Phil settled back to listen.

* * *

"Get your _asses_ moving! Vacation time is _over,_ you lazy bastards!"

Clint snickered loudly enough to be heard, grinning broadly when Bryan spun around to face him, mouth open and ready to tear him a new one.

The fight drained out of him just as quickly.

"It's only you."

Clint put on a face of mock hurt.

"Sorry to disappoint."

Bryan rolled his eyes and glanced down at the indoor track a story below him. He was up on a viewing balcony and Clint had used his distraction with the recruits as a chance to sneak up here with him.

"So you got a second?"

Bryan's eyes came back to his immediately.

"For you, kid? I've got two."

Clint smiled slightly. He wondered if Bryan _knew_ how much of an open book he tended to be.

"So I hear you incited a riot on my behalf."

Bryan blinked in shock at the blunt statement.

Yeah, Clint hadn't expected him to be ready for that.

"I didn't…well…I…just…" Bryan sighed. "Yeah."

Clint smirked.

"I haven't thanked you for that yet."

Bryan's eyebrow arched.

"No, you haven't."

Clint let his smirk grow into a warm smile.

"Well…thank you."

Bryan nodded slowly.

"You're welcome."

Clint nodded back and just stared at him. A moment later Bryan shifted, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"Was that all?" Bryan sounded vaguely unsettled.

 _Oh, so easy_.

Clint smiled a bright, sarcastic smile – like he was _thrilled_ Bryan had asked.

"No, actually."

Bryan rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Then by all means, Barton, my day is yours."

Clint smirked – but then let the humor fade away. Allowing his expression to grow serious and heavy, he moved to the railing, leaning over to rest his forearms on it. It took a few breaths but Bryan sighed and joined him, mirroring his position.

"You all right, Barton?"

Clint smiled slightly. Williams hadn't known what he was talking about. Clint had family in _spades_.

"No – no, I'm not." He put just a touch of vulnerability in his tone, enough that he knew Bryan would pick up on it.

He could _feel_ the concern roll of Bryan a moment later.

They were both silent for a beat and then Bryan shifted next to him.

"Is this about…" Bryan sighed deeply, "your name?"

Clint's eyes widened and he turned to lean sideways against the rail. Bryan was smirking.

"Wilson sold me out."

"I thought it was _Dan_ now."

It was Clint's turn to roll his eyes.

"Don't play a player, kid. I taught you the game, remember?"

Clint faced forward again with a huff.

"Now is there something you want to tell me?"

Clint scowled.

"Not anymore."

Bryan chuckled softly, his hand landing on Clint's shoulder a moment later.

"You're the one trying to jerk _me_ around and now you're playing wounded? That's funny, kid."

Clint rolled his eyes again – this time with more affection than annoyance. He turned to face Bryan again.

"It's been brought to my attention, that you're in a nasty habit of calling me by my last name…like I'm just some _normal_ , everyday recruit that passes through your program…"

"Well, you're definitely not _normal_." Bryan slid in under his breath.

Clint glared at him with vague annoyance and went on.

"I was _going_ to start going on about how family doesn't do that – but I'm rethinking my stance by the second."

Something in Bryan's expression shifted – growing more serious.

"Family?"

Clint frowned.

"I thought Dan ratted me out."

"Kid, you start calling him Dan and he starts calling you Clint – it doesn't take a genius to realize something shifted. You come up here acting like you've come to some big emotional revelation, I put the pieces together…I didn't realize that…" Bryan trailed off with a sigh.

"That you're family to me?" Clint finished quietly – his own gaze serious and sincere now.

Bryan's gaze shifted to his – a little guarded – not quite sure what to make of Clint's words.

"There's a part of me, Bryan…that you understand better than anyone." Clint thought back to the man _forcing_ him to listen when Clint was letting himself get overrun by memories of what he'd lost. "You're one of the ones I've trusted for a _long_ time and I want everyone else to know that, too. I want _you_ to know that."

Bryan's jaw clenched tightly and his eyes were suddenly bright with emotion.

"People I trust – they call me Clint. And those people," Clint sighed and smiled warmly, "I call them family. We clear?"

Todd nodded without saying anything and Clint nodded in return.

"What you did for me – for _Phil_. I won't ever forget it. It shouldn't have taken a show of loyalty like that for me to say all of this. I'm sorry it did."

Todd shook his head.

"You don't need to apologize to me. I understand protecting yourself, _Clint_. How can I hold that against you when protecting you is one of my top priorities?"

And suddenly Clint felt like the one that had taken the emotional sucker punch. Todd smiled warmly and slung an arm over his shoulder, pulling him towards the rail.

"Now…we need to figure out how you can lord your superiority over these guys now that the parkour course is a field trip away…"

* * *

"Your first day of _real_ PT and you insist on being _early_." Clint shook his head mockingly as he slowed Phil's wheelchair to a stop.

"Well, no one can pull off fashionably late like you, Clint – so I figure why even try?"

Clint blew out a short sarcastic, mocking laugh and moved around to sit on the bench for the bench press.

"There's such a thing as _on time_ , you know."

He smirked as he lay back on the bench, wrapping his hands around the bar and glancing at the weights on either end of it.

"But then I wouldn't get to listen to you complain."

Clint lifted his head, looking down the length of his body at Phil, who was pushing the wheels of his chair forward and then pulling them back – shifting the chair forward a few inches and then back. It was a fidgety thing to do – not typical of the epitome of calm self control that was Phil Coulson.

Time to get his mind on something other than the impending hell that was physical therapy.

"So…" Clint lifted the bar off the rack and held his arms straight for a moment, "what's the word from the Council? They still want me hogtied on a spit? Or did Fury tell them about the tie between Williams and Maskov and get me off the naughty list?" He lowered the bar to his chest and pressed it back up.

He heard Phil's wheelchair stop moving and moved the bar back to the rack, sitting up to look hard at his handler.

"You realize you only did one rep, right?"

Clint waved a hand through the air.

"Put the deadpan humor on hold for a second – you've got your 'worried face' on."

"My _'worried face'_?"

Clint ignored the doubtful sarcasm in Phil's voice and hardened his gaze.

"What's going on, Phil?"

Phil sighed and wheeled himself a little closer.

"Fury didn't tell them about Maskov for obvious reasons."

Clint inclined his head in agreement. He couldn't say he was disappointed - he _had_ killed the man without orders or any tangible provocation. He didn't mind the Council not having that to use against him.

"So I'm clear?"

"He told me the Council hasn't come to a ruling on your involvement in Williams' actions at this juncture." "

"Involvement." Clint repeated it under his breath with an annoyed huff.

Clint stood abruptly from the bench and paced away. Even after two weeks, that de-brief still burned at him. Apparently time hadn't cooled their tempers on the matter, either. He turned back to face Phil with a scowl.

He was so sick of this - had even started to foolishly hope that maybe his troubles with them were coming to an end.

Guess the bad blood ran a little too thick even with Williams out of the equation.

"They want to know my involvement? I'm gonna stand by 'fucking _victim_ '."

"You know there are members that don't see it that way."

Yeah Clint knew - they hadn't exactly been shy about saying it to his face. Didn't make it any more _idiotic._

Phil sighed again and scowled – didn't appear any more pleased with this news than Clint was.

"Fury says there are members still making the argument that you pushed Williams into this – that you instigated his reaction."

Clint threw his hands up in frustration.

"They _hate_ me. I _knew_ it. They've always hated me and they always _will_. The son of a bitch nearly kills me _how_ many times – nearly kills Natasha and _you_ …and he's the fucking victim here?"

Phil patted his hand in the air to tell him to calm down.

But Clint didn't feel like calming down _thank you very much_.

"They don't _all_ hate you. The Council is split about it."

"Split?" Clint frowned doubtfully. He thought suddenly of the balding man who'd actually talked to him with respect, even understanding.

"They have an even number with Williams out of the picture. The vote on your involvement is literally split."

Clint shook his head in confusion.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that until another Council member is appointed, no decision will be made. Your case has been put on the back burner."

Clint huffed in annoyance and drifted back to the bench to sit. It was better than getting the ax right now, he supposed. Now he had to just sit back and hope the next Council member was sympathetic.

Right…because his luck was always so _good_.

"So they're looking for another Council member?"

"The process is in the early stages. It could take years for someone to be chosen."

" _Years_?"

Phil gave a look that was patronizing at best – condescending at worst.

"Clint, do you have any idea how long it took to _form_ the Council we have now?"

Clint rolled his eyes and rubbed his hand across his face. How the _hell_ would he know that?

"I don't know… _years_?"

If Phil read the sarcasm in his tone – and he'd laid it pretty thick – he gave no indication.

"Nearly a decade."

"And if they have more split decisions between now and ten years from now?"

Phil chuckled slightly – like Clint was a small child that was talking about things he didn't understand.

"It won't take ten years to pick one member."

Clint rolled his eyes and all but threw himself back on the bench – narrowly avoiding cracking the back of his head on the bar.

Phil laughed again – this time it sounded vaguely apologetic. His tone was more conciliatory this time, less condescending. Though, if there was one person that could get away with condescension with him, it'd be Phil.

"The Council doesn't often have decisions that come down to one vote. Believe it or not, they're usually unanimous."

"A unanimous bunch of _assholes_." Clint sighed. "So I'm just special then."

He wasn't sure being 'special' in any circumstance surrounding the Council was a good thing.

"Oh, there's _something_ special about you, Barton."

Clint smiled and grabbed the bar hovering over his head. He used it to pull his body back on the bench and then sat up, hooking his elbows over the bar and lounging forward with a lazy smirk.

"Mornin', Braxton."

"You shouldn't be anywhere near that bench press while your back is still healing."

Rachel Braxton smiled at him, but her eyes were firm as she moved away from the door and to Phil's side. Surprise, surprise, she couldn't _help_ but be all _doctor-y._

"Ready to get started, Phil?" She asked as she noted something on her data pad before tucking it under her arm.

"Yes, ma'am." Phil nodded dutifully.

Clint rolled his eyes.

"Teacher's pet."

Braxton turned to him and gave him a mildly scolding look – a look he'd earned varying degrees of during his own time under her care.

"There a _reason_ you're here, Barton?"

Clint smirked.

"Figured I could give Phil some pointers on surviving sessions with you – lend him some of my vast knowledge."

Braxton laughed and rolled her eyes then looked to Phil, who just nodded.

Clint grinned, feeling vindicated. If Phil wanted him here, then Braxton would let him stay. Simple as that.

All of their attention was drawn to the door when it opened suddenly and a tall, broad-shouldered woman strode through. Her brown hair was pulled back in a harsh bun and the look in her eyes was hard and no-nonsense.

Braxton was the one that ventured to speak first.

"Dr. Webber...do you need something?"

So _this_ was Webber. Clint felt his back stiffening in defiance already and ordered himself to relax and give her the benefit of the doubt. He hadn't liked Dan on first impression either.

"I wanted to take this opportunity to introduce myself to Agent Coulson."

Webber's sharp gray eyes cut to Phil, who nodded in greeting.

Then they shifted to Clint and he met and held her gaze without hesitation.

"And you must be Agent Barton."

Clint smirked cockily.

"So you've heard of me?"

She hummed lowly in response – her eyes flashing.

Oh yeah – she'd heard of him. And she didn't seem particularly impressed with what she'd heard. But before Clint could do more than cock his head and open his mouth to respond, Braxton spoke up.

"Thank you for dropping in, Dr. Webber, but this is a private session so…"

"Private?"Webber cut in with an arched eyebrow.

Suddenly her eyes were on Clint again and he resisted the urge to stiffen in defense. Instead, he remained relaxed and lounged on the bar – like he wasn't particularly bothered by the rising tension in the room.

"Then I will expect Agent Barton to remove himself as well, as his presence will only hamper the process here."

Clint gave up all pretenses of relaxation – stiffened sharply in his spot on the bench. The sudden tension in his muscles sent a sharp twinge down his spine, but he ignored it.

No _way_ was she kicking him out.

Something in her gaze shifted at his response. And it wasn't just in her eyes. Her shoulders rolled ever so slightly back, and her posture grew a little straighter. And when she didn't break the stare down, Clint saw a hint of challenge her in eyes.

A challenge. Like she'd been waiting for him dig in his heels and fight her on this.

Well, that explained what she'd _heard_. But his tendency to step out against authority wasn't exactly a closely-guarded secret – was more like common knowledge. So he wasn't all that surprised that she'd come in prepared for that.

But to throw down with him in a power play like this on day damn one?

It just didn't exactly scream 'bedside manner' like he'd hoped their first meeting would.

Clint opened his mouth to spit out something that was _sure_ to get him in trouble but Braxton suddenly stepped in between them and raised a hand in both their directions.

"Dr. Webber, I'd like to include Agent Barton, if you don't mind."

Webber shook her head, and straightened her posture just a little more.

"Private sessions are not to include third parties. You _know_ this, Ms. Braxton."

"I'm not leaving." Clint put in sharply.

Webber's eyes cut to him again and the hard look there had him standing from the bench. Had his muscles tensing and his posture shifting like he was prepping to defend against an attack.

And maybe he was.

This wasn't just about the rules of PT. She didn't like him – he could see it right there in her eyes. She didn't even _know_ him – hadn't taken even a second to _try_ – and she was passing judgments.

"Agent Barton," and damned if her tone didn't cross from an attempt at patience into pure condescension, "we have rules for a reason. And whether _you've_ been able to escape following them in the past without repercussion," she cast a pointed look in Phil's direction, " _I_ fully intend to see that they are upheld by my staff and those under their care."

She'd said it like it was a chore – something that hadn't been done properly until she came along. She was bringing Dan into this without ever having to say his name. Dan – whose only offense was being a goddamned _friend_.

And on top of that she was looking at _him_ like he was a disobedient wild child that needed to be brought to task and taught a lesson. She was acting like she had a _fucking_ clue about the situation surrounding what had happened with Phil. Then she was throwing what she apparently viewed as an unforgivable offense right in his face like he should be ashamed of what he'd done.

Ashamed of _saving_ Phil.

That _bitch._

Clearly, she had no idea who she was dealing with if she thought a few sharp words would even knock him off his stride.

"Now, _Agent,_ if you wouldn't mind," she motioned towards the door, "I insist."

He'd never had his classification throw at him like it was a personal insult to his character before. But he could throw down in the word game with the best of them. So Clint threw on the most sarcastic smirk he could manage and leaned his forearms casually against the bar in front of him.

"Word to the wise, _Doctor."_ He could make titles sound like insults _too_ and he watched her twitch at the tone. "Your bedside manner sucks ass. You want cooperation, cut all this condescending bullshit and don't act like you fucking _know_ me. If you did, you'd know that you can take your _insistence_ and shove it up y-"

"Clint." Phil scolded sharply.

Clint shot him a betrayed look – and Phil's eyes silently demanded he _calm_ the hell down.

"I'm _not_ leaving, Phil."

Phil raised a calming hand of his own – clearly telling him that _he'd_ handle this – and looked to Webber.

"I asked for Clint to be here."

"And Agent Barton has been through intensive physical therapy before – he's a help here, not a hindrance." Braxton added firmly.

Webber frowned – her eyes locked on Clint's for a long moment. She didn't seem to appreciate the defiance he knew was shining there, because her eyes narrowed. She held his gaze for a moment longer – long enough that he knew this power play between them was just getting started. Then something in her gaze shifted and she seemed to dismiss him all together. Like he wasn't even there anymore.

"Fine. If you believe it will aid the healing process." She looked back to Braxton for confirmation.

"I do."

Webber nodded sharply and turned on her heel without another glance in his direction or an acknowledgement that they'd even locked horns at all.

"Nice to meet you," Clint called after her as sarcastically as he could manage and as soon as the door closed behind her he added a hissed, " _bitch_."

"Respect, Clint." Phil reminded firmly.

Clint rolled his eyes.

"Whatever."

"She didn't realize what she was asking." Phil continued in a painfully reasonable tone.

"Like _hell_ she didn't." Clint scowled and moved around the bench press to help Braxton support Phil as he slowly stood from the wheel chair.

" _CLINT_." Phil turned to give him a pleading glance, one that was begging for him to just _let it go_. Clint rolled his eyes. They did have bigger concerns at the moment.

" _Fine_."

Bitch was _still_ going down, though.

He intended to guaran-fuckin-tee it.

* * *

_End of New York_

So? What did you think? We laughed, we cried, we yelled, we threw our computers/tablets/ipads/phones across the room? It was a wild ride, for sure :D

Comment are the sun to my flower…the wind to my sail…the rain to my rain gutter…okay that last one was a little weird but comment anyway, huh?

I've started work on my next story and I'll have you all know that I HAD been planning on doing a different one next…but you all wanted this one…Kylen wanted this one… **I** wanted this one…so here we go

* * *

_"_ **Cairo** _"_

_A mission in Cairo. A car bomb and a body. Phil thinks Clint is gone forever. But nothing is as it seems, and Clint is forced to fight for his life alone, because for the first time since joining SHIELD...nobody is coming for him._


End file.
